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ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


Ilk"**' 


l9i    \* 


ADVENTURES  OF 
DAVID  GRAYSON 

ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 
ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  THOMAS  FOGARTY 


THE  BOOK  LEAGUE   OF  AMERICA 

New  York 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMVn,  DOUBLED  AY  &  CO.,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMVI,  THE  PHIULIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMVn,  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMX,  DOUBLEDAY  &  CO.,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMVm,  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMIX,  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  MCMX,  THE  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  CO. 


GIFT 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  AT  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS, 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


!•  I 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    "The  Burden  of  the  Valley  of  Vision"  .     .  3 

II.    I  Buy  a  Farm 9 

III.  The  Joy  of  Possession            15 

IV.  Entertain  an  Agent  Unawares 26 

V.    The  Axe-Helve 36 

VI.    The  Marsh  Ditch 48 

VII.    An  Argument  with  a  Millionnaire    ...  58 

VIII.    A  Boy  and  a  Preacher 71 

IX.    The  Tramp 79 

X.    The  Infidel 90 

XL    The  Country  Doctor 104 

XII.    An  Evening  at  Home       .......  i  i^ 

XIII.  The  Politician 127 

XIV.  The  Harvest 138 


BOOK  II 

I.    An  Adventure  in  Fraternity 149 

II.    A  Day  of  Pleasant  Bread 158 

ni.    The  Open  Road 170 

I  ,     237 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

IV.    On  Being  Where  You  Belong 177 

V.    The  Story  of  Anna 186 

VI.    The  Drunkard 196 

VII.    An  Old  Maid 207 

VIII.    A  Roadside  Prophet 214 

IX.    The  Gunsmith 222 

X.    The  Mowing 234 

XI.    An  Old  Man 245 

XII.    The  Celebrity 248 

XIII.    On  Friendship 260 


BOOK  I 
ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 


r^>*.-r^--^ 


I 


"THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  VALLEY  OF  VISION' 


jL  came  here  eight  years  ago  as  the  renter  of  this  farm,  of  which 
soon  afterward  I  became  the  owner.  The  time  before  that  I  like 
to  forget.  The  chief  impression  it  left  upon  my  memory,  now 
happily  growing  indistinct,  is  of  being  hurried  faster  than  I 
could  well  travel.  From  the  moment,  as  a  boy  of  seventeen,  I 
first  began  to  pay  my  own  way,  my  days  were  ordered  by  an 
inscrutable  power  which  drove  me  hourly  to  my  task.  I  was 
rarely  allowed  to  look  up  or  down,  but  always  forward,  toward 
that  vague  Success  which  we  Americans  love  to  glorify. 

My  senses,  my  nerves,  even  my  muscles  were  continually 
strained  to  the  utmost  of  attainment.  If  I  loitered  or  paused  by 
the  wayside,  as  it  seems  natural  for  me  to  do,  I  soon  heard  the 
sharp  crack  of  the  lash.  For  many  years,  and  I  can  say  it  truth- 
fully, I  never  rested.  I  neither  thought  nor  reflected.  I  had  no 
pleasure,  even  though  I  pursued  it  fiercely  during  the  brief 
respite  of  vacations.  Through  many  feverish  years  I  did  not 
work:  I  merely  produced. 

The  only  real  thing  I  did  was  to  hurry  as  though  every  mo- 
ment were  my  last,  as  though  the  world,  which  now  seems  so 
rich  in  everything,  held  only  one  prize  which  might  be  seized 

3 


4  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

upon  before  I  arrived.  Since  then  I  have  tried  to  recall,  like  one 
who  struggles  to  restore  the  visions  of  a  fever,  what  it  was  that 
I  ran  to  attain,  or  why  I  should  have  borne  without  rebellion 
such  indignities  to  soul  and  body.  That  life  seems  now,  of  all 
illusions,  the  most  distant  and  unreal.  It  is  like  the  unguessed 
eternity  before  we  are  born:  not  of  concern  compared  with 
that  eternity  upon  which  we  are  now  embarked. 

All  these  things  happened  in  cities  and  among  crowds.  I  like 
to  forget  them.  They  smack  of  that  slavery  of  the  spirit  which 
is  so  much  worse  than  any  mere  slavery  of  the  body. 

One  day — it  was  in  April,  I  remember,  and  the  soft  maples 
in  the  city  park  were  just  beginning  to  blossom — ^I  stopped  sud- 
denly. I  did  not  intend  to  stop.  I  confess  in  humiUation  that 
it  was  no  courage,  no  will  of  my  own.  I  intended  to  go  on 
toward  Success:  but  Fate  stopped  me.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been 
thrown  violently  from  a  moving  planet:  all  the  universe  streamed 
around  me  and  past  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  of  all  animate 
creation,  I  was  the  only  thing  that  was  still  or  silent.  Until  I 
stopped  I  had  not  known  the  pace  I  ran;  and  I  had  a  vague 
sympathy  and  understanding,  never  felt  before,  for  those  who 
left  the  running.  I  lay  prostrate  with  fever  and  close  to  death 
for  weeks  and  watched  the  world  go  by:  the  dust,  the  noise,  the 
very  colour  of  haste.  The  only  sharp  pang  that  I  suffered  was 
the  feeling  that  I  should  be  broken-hearted  and  that  I  was  not; 
that  I  should  care  and  that  I  did  not.  It  was  as  though  I  had 
died  and  escaped  all  further  responsibility.  I  even  watched  with 
dim  equanimity  my  friends  racing  past  me,  panting  as  they 
ran.  Some  of  them  paused  an  instant  to  comfort  me  where  I  lay, 
but  I  could  see  that  their  minds  were  still  upon  the  running 
and  I  was  glad  when  they  went  away.  I  cannot  tell  with  what 
weariness  their  haste  oppressed  me.  As  for  them,  they  somehow 
blamed  me  for  dropping  out.  I  knew.  Until  we  ourselves  under- 
stand, we  accept  no  excuse  from  the  man  who  stops.  While  I 
felt  it  all,  I  was  not  bitter.  I  did  not  seem  to  care.  I  said  to  my- 
self: "This  is  Unfitness.  I  survive  no  longer.  So  be  it." 

Thus  I  lay,  and  presently  I  began  to  hunger  and  thirst.  Desire 
rose  within  me:  the  indescribable  longing  of  the  convalescent 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  5 

for  the  food  of  recovery.  So  I  lay,  questioning  wearily  what  it  was 
that  I  required.  One  morning  I  wakened  with  a  strange,  new 
joy  in  my  soul.  It  came  to  me  at  that  moment  with  indescribable 
poignancy,  the  thought  of  walking  barefoot  in  cool,  fresh  plow 
furrows  as  I  had  once  done  when  a  boy.  So  vividly  the  memory 
came  to  me — the  high  airy  world  as  it  was  at  that  moment,  and 
the  boy  I  was  walking  free  in  the  furrows— that  the  weak  tears 
filled  my  eyes,  the  first  I  had  shed  in  many  years.  Then  I 
thought  of  sitting  in  quiet  thickets  in  old  fence  corners,  the 
wood  behind  me  rising  still,  cool,  mysterious,  and  the  fields 
in  front  stretching  away  in  illimitable  pleasantness.  I  thought  of 
the  good  smell  of  cows  at  milking — you  do  not  know,  if  you  do 
not  know! — I  thought  of  the  sights  and  sounds,  the  heat  and 
sweat  of  the  hay  fields.  I  thought  of  a  certain  brook  I  knew 
when  a  boy  that  flowed  among  alders  and  wild  parsnips,  where 
I  waded  with  a  three-foot  rod  for  trout.  I  thought  of  all  these 
things  as  a  man  thinks  of  his  first  love.  Oh,  I  craved  the  soil.  I 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  the  earth.  I  was  greedy  for  growing 
things. 

And  thus,  eight  years  ago,  I  came  here  Uke  one  sore- 
wounded  creeping  from  the  field  of  battle.  I  remember  walking 
in  the  sunshine,  weak  yet,  but  curiously  satisfied.  I  that  was 
dead  lived  again.  It  came  to  me  then  with  a  curious  certainty, 
not  since  so  assuring,  that  I  understood  the  chief  marvel  of 
nature  hidden  within  the  Story  of  the  Resurrection,  the  marvel 
of  plant  and  seed,  father  and  son,  the  wonder  of  the  seasons, 
the  miracle  of  life.  I,  too,  had  died :  I  had  lain  long  in  darkness, 
and  now  I  had  risen  again  upon  the  sweet  earth.  And  I  possessed 
beyond  others  a  knowledge  of  a  former  existence,  which  I 
knew,  even  then,  I  could  never  return  to. 

For  a  time,  in  the  new  life,  I  was  happy  to  drunkenness — 
working,  eating,  sleeping.  I  was  an  animal  again,  let  out  to  run 
in  green  pastures.  I  was  glad  of  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset.  I 
was  glad  at  noon.  It  delighted  me  when  my  muscles  ached 
with  work  and  when,  after  supper,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes 
open  for  sheer  weariness.  And  sometimes  I  was  awakened  in 
the  night  out  of  a  sound  sleep — seemingly  by  the  very  silences— 


6  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

and  lay  in  a  sort  of  bodily  comfort  impossible  to  describe. 

I  did  not  want  to  feel  or  to  think:  I  merely  wanted  to  live.  In 
the  sun  or  the  rain  I  wanted  to  go  out  and  come  in,  and  never 
again  know  the  pain  of  the  unquiet  spirit.  I  looked  forward 
to  an  awakening  not  without  dread  for  we  are  as  helpless  before 
birth  as  in  the  presence  of  death. 

But  like  all  birth,  it  came,  at  last,  suddenly.  All  that  summer  I 
had  worked  in  a  sort  of  animal  content.  Autumn  had  now  come, 
late  autumn,  with  coolness  in  the  evening  air.  I  was  plowing  in 
my  upper  field — not  then  mine  in  fact — and  it  was  a  soft  after- 
noon with  the  earth  turning  up  moist  and  fragrant.  I  had  been 
walking  the  furrows  all  day  long.  I  had  taken  note,  as  though 
my  life  depended  upon  it,  of  the  occasional  stones  or  roots  in 
my  field,  I  made  sure  of  the  adjustment  of  the  harness,  I  drove 
with  pecuHar  care  to  save  the  horses.  With  such  simple  details 
of  the  work  in  hand  I  had  found  it  my  joy  to  occupy  my  mind. 
Up  to  that  moment  the  most  important  things  in  the  world  had 
seemed  a  straight  furrow  and  well-turned  corners — to  me,  then, 
a  profound  accomplishment. 

I  cannot  well  describe  it,  save  by  the  analogy  of  an  opening 
door  somewhere  within  the  house  of  my  consciousness.  I  had 
been  in  the  dark :  I  seemed  to  emerge.  I  had  been  bound  down : 
I  seemed  to  leap  up — and  with  a  marvellous  sudden  sense  of 
freedom  and  joy. 

I  stopped  there  in  my  field  and  looked  up.  And  it  was  as  if  I 
had  never  looked  up  before.  I  discovered  another  world.  It  had 
been  there  before,  for  long  and  long,  but  I  had  never  seen  nor 
felt  it.  All  discoveries  are  made  in  that  way:  a  man  finds  the 
new  thing,  not  in  nature  but  in  himself. 

It  was  as  though,  concerned  with  plow  and  harness  and 
furrow,  I  had  never  known  that  the  world  had  height  or  colour 
or  sweet  sounds,  or  that  there  was  feeling  in  a  hillside.  I  forgot 
myself,  or  where  I  was.  I  stood  a  long  time  motionless.  My 
dominant  feeling,  if  I  can  at  all  express  it,  was  of  a  strange 
new  friendUness,  a  warmth,  as  though  these  hills,  this  field 
about  me,  the  woods,  had  suddenly  spoken  to  me  and  caressed 
me.  It  was  as  though  I  had  been  accepted  in  membership, 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT      7 

as  though  I  was  now  recognised,  after  long  trial,  as  belonging 
here. 

Across  the  town  road  which  separates  my  farm  from  my  near- 
est neighbour's,  I  saw  a  field,  familiar,  yet  strangely  new  and 
unfamiliar,  lying  up  to  the  setting  sun,  all  red  with  autumn, 
above  it  the  incalculable  heights  of  the  sky,  blue,  but  not  quite 
clear,  owing  to  the  Indian  summer  haze.  I  cannot  convey  the 
sweetness  and  softness  of  that  landscape,  the  airiness  of  it,  the 
mystery  of  it,  as  it  came  to  me  at  that  moment.  It  was  as  though, 
looking  at  an  acquaintance  long  known,  I  should  discover  that  I 
loved  him.  As  I  stood  there  I  was  conscious  of  the  cool  tang  of 
burning  leaves  and  brush  heaps,  the  lazy  smoke  of  which  floated 
down  the  long  valley  and  found  me  in  my  field,  and  finally  I 
heard,  as  though  the  sounds  were  then  made  for  the  first  time, 
all  the  vague  murmurs  of  the  country  side — a  cow-bell  some- 
where in  the  distance,  the  creak  of  a  wagon,  the  blurred  evening 
hum  of  birds,  insects,  frogs.  So  much  it  means  for  a  man  to  stop 
and  look  up  from  his  task.  So  I  stood,  and  I  looked  up  and 
down  with  a  glow  and  a  thrill  which  I  cannot  now  look  back 
upon  without  some  envy  and  a  little  amusement  at  the  very 
grandness  and  seriousness  of  it  all.  And  I  said  aloud  to  myself; 

"I  will  be  as  broad  as  the  earth.  I  will  not  be  limited." 

Thus  I  was  born  into  the  present  world,  and  here  I  continue, 
not  knowing  what  other  world  I  may  yet  achieve.  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  wait  in  expectancy,  keeping  my  furrows  straight  and  my 
corners  well  turned.  Since  that  day  in  the  field,  though  my 
fences  include  no  more  acres,  and  I  still  plow  my  own  fields,  my 
real  domain  has  expanded  until  I  crop  wide  fields  and  take 
the  profit  of  many  curious  pastures.  From  my  farm  I  can  see 
most  of  the  world;  and  if  I  wait  here  long  enough  all  people 
pass  this  way. 

And  I  look  out  upon  them  not  in  the  surroundings  which  they 
have  chosen  for  themselves,  but  from  the  vantage  ground  of 
my  familiar  world.  The  symbols  which  meant  so  much  in  cities 
mean  Httle  here.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  saw  men 
naked.  They  come  and  stand  beside  my  oak,  and  the  oak  passes 
solemn  judgment;  they  tread  my  furrows  and  the  clods  give 


8  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

silent  evidence;  they  touch  the  green  blades  of  my  corn,  the 
corn  whispers  its  sure  conclusions.  Stern  judgments  that  will  be 
deceived  by  no  symbols! 

Thus  I  have  delighted,  secretly,  in  caUing  myself  an  unHmited 
farmer,  and  I  make  this  confession  in  answer  to  the  inner  and 
truthful  demand  of  the  soul  that  we  are  not,  after  all,  the  slaves 
of  things,  whether  corn,  or  banknotes,  or  spindles;  that  we 
are  not  the  used,  but  the  users;  that  life  is  more  than  profit  and 
loss.  And  so  I  shall  expect  that  while  I  am  talking  farm  some  of 
you  may  be  thinking  of  dry  goods,  banking,  literature,  carpentry, 
or  what-not.  But  if  you  can  say:  I  am  an  unHmited  dry  goods 
merchant,  I  am  an  unHmited  carpenter,  I  will  give  you  an  old- 
fashioned  country  haQd-shake,  strong  and  warm.  We  are  friends; 
our  orbits  coincide. 


r.lt\»4<-"         -'vN 


B-^'t 


II 
I  BUY  A  FARM 


A 


I  HAVE  SAID,  when  I  came  here  I  came  as  a  renter,  working 
all  of  the  first  summer  without  that  "open  vision"  of  which  the 
prophet  Samuel  speaks.  I  had  no  memory  of  the  past  and  no 
hope  of  the  future.  I  fed  upon  the  moment.  My  sister  Harriet 
kept  the  house  and  I  looked  after  the  farm  and  the  fields.  In  all 
those  months  I  hardly  knew  that  I  had  neighbours,  although 
Horace,  from  whom  I  rented  my  place,  was  not  infrequently  a 
visitor.  He  has  since  said  that  I  looked  at  him  as  though  he 
were  a  "statute."  I  was  "citified,"  Horace  said;  and  "citified" 
with  us  here  in  the  country  is  nearly  the  limit  of  invective, 
though  not  violent  enough  to  discourage  such  a  gift  of  sociabiUty 
as  his.  The  Scotch  Preacher,  the  rarest,  kindest  man  I  know, 
called  once  or  twice,  wearing  the  air  of  formality  which  so  ill 
becomes  him.  I  saw  nothing  in  him;  it  was  my  fault,  not  his, 
that  I  missed  so  many  weeks  of  his  friendship.  Once  in  that  time 
the  Professor  crossed  my  fields  with  his  tin  box  slung  from  his 
shoulder;  and  the  only  feeling  I  had,  born  of  crowded  cities, 
was  that  this  was  an  intrusion  upon  my  property.  Intrusion:  and 
the  Professor!  It  is  now  unthinkable.  I  often  passed  the  Car- 
pentry Shop  on  my  way  to  town.  I  saw  Baxter  many  times  at 

9 


10  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

his  bench.  Even  then  Baxter's  eyes  attracted  me:  he  always 
glanced  up  at  me  as  I  passed,  and  his  look  had  in  it  something 
of  a  caress.  So  the  home  of  Starkweather,  standing  aloof  among 
its  broad  lawns  and  tall  trees,  carried  no  meaning  for  me. 

Of  all  my  neighbours,  Horace  is  the  nearest.  From  the  back 
door  of  my  house,  looking  over  the  hill,  I  can  see  the  two  red 
chimneys  of  his  home,  and  the  top  of  the  windmill.  Horace's 
barn  and  corn  silo  are  more  pretentious  by  far  than  his  house, 
but  fortunately  they  stand  on  lower  ground,  where  they  are  not 
visible  from  my  side  of  the  hill.  Five  minutes'  walk  in  a  straight 
line  across  the  fields  brings  me  to  Horace's  door;  by  the  road 
it  takes  at  least  ten  minutes. 

In  the  fall  after  my  arrival  I  had  come  to  love  the  farm  and 
its  surroundings  so  much  that  I  decided  to  have  it  for  my  own. 
I  did  not  look  ahead  to  being  a  farmer.  I  did  not  ask  Harriet's 
advice.  I  found  myself  sitting  one  day  in  the  justice's  office. 
The  justice  was  bald  and  as  dry  as  corn  fodder  in  March.  He 
sat  with  spectacled  impressiveness  behind  his  ink-stained  table. 
Horace  hitched  his  heel  on  the  round  of  his  chair  and  put  his 
hat  on  his  knee.  He  wore  his  best  coat  and  his  hair  was  brushed 
in  deference  to  the  occasion.  He  looked  uncomfortable,  but 
important.  I  sat  opposite  him,  somewhat  overwhelmed  by  the 
business  in  hand.  I  felt  like  an  inadequate  boy  measured  against 
solemnities  too  large  for  him.  The  processes  seemed  curiously 
unconvincing,  Uke  a  game  in  which  the  important  part  is  to 
keep  from  laughing;  and  yet  when  I  thought  of  laughing  I  felt 
cold  chills  of  horror.  If  I  had  laughed  at  that  moment  I  cannot 
think  what  that  justice  would  have  said!  But  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  have  the  old  man  read  the  deed,  looking  at  me  over  his 
spectacles  from  time  to  time  to  make  sure  I  was  not  playing 
truant.  There  are  good  and  great  words  in  a  deed.  One  of  them 
I  brought  away  with  me  from  the  conference,  a  very  fine,  big 
one,  which  I  love  to  have  out  now  and  again  to  remind  me  of 
the  really  serious  things  of  life.  It  gives  me  a  pecuHar  dry,  legal 
feeling.  If  I  am  about  to  enter  upon  a  serious  bargain,  like  the 
sale  of  a  cow,  I  am  more  avaricious  if  I  work  with  it  under  my 
tongue. 


ADVENIURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  11 

Hereditaments!  Hereditaments! 

Some  words  need  to  be  fenced  in,  pig-tight,  so  that  they  can- 
not escape  us;  others  we  prefer  to  have  running  at  large,  in- 
definite but  inclusive.  I  would  not  look  up  that  word  for  any- 
thing: I  might  find  it  fenced  in  so  that  it  could  not  mean  to 
me  all  that  it  does  now. 

Hereditaments!  May  there  be  many  of  them — or  it! 

Is  it  not  a  fine  Providence  that  gives  us  different  things  to 
love.?  In  the  purchase  of  my  farm  both  Horace  and  I  got  the 
better  of  the  bargain — and  yet  neither  was  cheated.  In  reaUty 
a  fairly  strong  lantern  light  will  shine  through  Horace,  and  I 
could  see  that  he  was  hugging  himself  with  the  joy  of  his  bar- 
gain; but  I  was  content.  I  had  some  money  left — what  more  does 
anyone  want  after  a  bargain  .^^ — and  I  had  come  into  possession 
of  the  thing  I  desired  most  of  all.  Looking  at  bargains  from  a 
purely  commercial  point  of  view,  someone  is  always  cheated, 
but  looked  at  with  the  simple  eye  both  seller  and  buyer  always 
win. 

We  came  away  from  the  gravity  of  that  bargaining  in  Horace's 
wagon.  On  our  way  home  Horace  gave  me  fatherly  advice  about 
using  my  farm.  He  spoke  from  the  height  of  his  knowledge  to 
me,  a  humble  beginner.  The  conversation  ran  something  like 
this: 

Horace:  Thar's  a  clump  of  plum  trees  along  the  lower  pasture 
fence.  Perhaps  you  saw  'm 

Myself:  I  saw  them:  that  is  one  reason  I  bought  the  back 
pasture.  In  May  they  will  be  full  of  blossoms. 

Horace:  They're  wild  plums:  they  ain't  good  for  nothing. 

Myself  :  But  think  how  fine  they  will  be  all  the  year  round. 

Horace:  Fine!  They  take  up  a  quarter-acre  of  good  land.  I've 
been  going  to  cut  'em  myself  this  ten  years. 

Myself:  I  don't  think  I  shall  want  them  cut  out. 

Horace:  Humph. 

After  a  pause: 

Horace:  There's  a  lot  of  good  body  cord-wood  in  that  oak  on 
the  knoll. 

Myself:  Cord-wood!  Why,  that  oak  is  the  treasure  of  the 


12  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

whole  farm.  I  have  never  seen  a  finer  one.  I  could  not  think  of 
cutting  it. 

Horace:  It  will  bring  you  fifteen  or  twenty  dollars  cash  in 
hand. 

Myself:  But  I  rather  have  the  oak. 

Horace:  Humph. 

So  our  conversation  continued  for  some  time.  I  let  Horace 
know  that  I  preferred  rail  fences,  even  old  ones,  to  a  wire  fence, 
and  that  I  thought  a  farm  should  not  be  too  large,  else  it  might 
keep  one  away  from  his  friends.  And  what,  I  asked,  is  corn  com- 
pared with  a  friend.?  Oh,  I  grew  really  oratorical!  I  gave  it  as  my 
opinion  that  there  should  be  vines  around  the  house  (Waste  of 
time,  said  Horace),  and  that  no  farmer  should  permit  anyone 
to  paint  medicine  advertisements  on  his  barn  (Brings  you  ten 
dollars  a  year,  said  Horace),  and  that  I  proposed  to  fix  the 
bridge  on  the  lower  road  (What's  a  path-master  for?  asked 
Horace).  I  said  that  a  town  was  a  useful  adjunct  for  a  farm;  but 
I  laid  it  down  as  a  principle  that  no  town  should  be  too  near  a 
farm.  I  finally  became  so  enthusiastic  in  setting  forth  my  con- 
ceptions of  a  true  farm  that  I  reduced  Horace  to  a  series  of 
humphs.  The  early  humphs  were  incredulous,  but  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, with  some  joy,  they  became  humorously  contemptuous, 
and  finally  began  to  voice  a  large,  comfortable,  condescending 
tolerance.  I  could  fairly  feel  Horace  growing  superior  as  he  sat 
there  beside  me.  Oh,  he  had  everything  in  his  favour.  He  could 
prove  what  he  said:  One  tree  +  one  thicket  =  twenty  dollars. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  13 

One  landscape  =  ten  cords  of  wood  =  a  quarter-acre  of  corn  = 
twenty  dollars.  These  equations  prove  themselves.  Moreover, 
was  not  Horace  the  "best  off"  of  any  farmer  in  the  country? 
Did  he  not  have  the  largest  barn  and  the  best  corn  silo?  And 
are  there  better  arguments  ? 

Have  you  ever  had  anyone  give  you  up  as  hopeless?  And  is 
it  not  a  pleasure?  It  is  only  after  people  resign  you  to  your 
fate  that  you  really  make  friends  of  them.  For  how  can  you 
win  the  friendship  of  one  who  is  trying  to  convert  you  to  his 
superior  beliefs? 

As  we  talked,  then,  Horace  and  I,  I  began  to  have  hopes  of 
him.  There  is  no  joy  comparable  to  the  making  of  a  friend,  and 
the  more  resistant  the  material  the  greater  the  triumph.  Baxter, 
the  carpenter,  says  that  when  he  works  for  enjoyment  he 
chooses  curly  maple. 

When  Horace  set  me  down  at  my  gate  that  afternoon  he  gave 
me  his  hand  and  told  me  that  he  would  look  in  on  me  occasion- 
ally, and  that  if  I  had  any  trouble  to  let  him  know. 

A  few  days  later  I  heard  by  the  round-about  telegraph  com- 
mon in  country  neighbourhoods  that  Horace  had  found  a  good 
deal  of  fun  in  reporting  what  I  said  about  farming  and  that 
he  had  called  me  by  a  highly  humorous  but  disparaging  name. 
Horace  has  a  vein  of  humour  all  his  own.  I  have  caught  him 
alone  in  his  fields  chuckHng  to  himself,  and  even  breaking  out 
in  a  loud  laugh  at  the  memory  of  some  amusing  incident  that 
happened  ten  years  ago.  One  day,  a  month  or  more  after  our 
bargain,  Horace  came  down  across  his  field  and  hitched  his  jean- 
clad  leg  over  my  fence,  with  the  intent,  I  am  sure,  of  delving  a 
little  more  in  the  same  rich  mine  of  humour. 

"Horace,"  I  said,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye,  "did  you  call 
me  an — Agriculturist!" 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  man  so  pitifully  confused  as  Horace  was 
at  that  moment.  He  flushed,  he  stammered,  he  coughed,  the 
perspiration  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  He  tried  to  speak 
and  could  not.  I  was  sorry  for  him. 

"Horace,"  I  said,  "you're  a  Farmer." 

We  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  with  dreadful  seriousness, 


14  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

and  then  both  of  us  laughed  to  the  point  of  holding  our  sides. 
We  slapped  our  knees,  we  shouted,  we  wriggled,  we  almost 
rolled  with  merriment.  Horace  put  out  his  hand  and  we  shook 
heartily.  In  five  minutes  I  had  the  whole  story  of  his  humorous 
reports  out  of  him. 

No  real  friendship  is  ever  made  without  an  initial  clashing 
which  discloses  the  metal  of  each  to  each.  Since  that  day 
Horace's  jean-clad  leg  has  rested  many  a  time  on  my  fence 
and  we  have  talked  crops  and  calves.  We  have  been  the  best 
of  friends  in  the  way  of  whifHe-trees,  butter  tubs  and  pig  kill- 
ings— but  never  once  looked  up  together  at  the  sky. 

The  chief  objection  to  a  joke  in  the  country  is  that  it  is  so 
imperishable.  There  is  so  much  room  for  jokes  and  so  few 
jokes  to  fill  it.  When  I  see  Horace  approaching  with  a  pecuUar, 
friendly,  reminiscent  smile  on  his  face  I  hasten  with  all  ardour 
to  anticipate  him: 

"Horace,"  I  exclaim,  "you're  a  Farmer." 


"The  heat  and  sweat  of  the  hay  fields' 


III 

THE  JOY  OF  POSSESSION 

'How  sweet  the  west  wind  sounds  in  my  own  trees: 
How  graceful  climb  these  shadows  on  my  hilL" 


Ala 


-WAYS  as  I  travel,  I  think,  "Here  I  am,  let  anything  happen!" 
I  do  not  want  to  know  the  future;  knowledge  is  too  certain, 
too  cold,  too  real. 

It  is  true  that  I  have  not  always  met  the  fine  adventure  nor 
won  the  friend,  but  if  I  had,  what  should  I  have  more  to  look 
for  at  other  turnings  and  other  hilltops  ? 

The  afternoon  of  my  purchase  was  one  of  the  great  after- 
noons of  my  Hfe.  When  Horace  put  me  down  at  my  gate,  I  did 
not  go  at  once  to  the  house;  I  did  not  wish,  then,  to  talk  with 
Harriet.  The  things  I  had  with  myself  were  too  important.  I 
skulked  toward  my  barn,  compelling  myself  to  walk  slowly 
until  I  reached  the  corner,  where  I  broke  into  an  eager  run 
as  though  the  old  Nick  himself  were  after  me.  Behind  the  barn 
I  dropped  down  on  the  grass,  panting  with  laughter,  and  not 
without  some  of  the  shame  a  man  feels  at  being  a  boy.  Close 
along  the  side  of  the  barn,  as  I  sat  there  in  the  cool  of  the  shade,  I 
could  see  a  tangled  mat  of  smartweed  and  catnip,  and  the 
boards  of  the  barn,  brown  and  weather-beaten,  and  the  gables 

IS 


16  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

above  with  mud  swallows'  nests,  now  deserted;  and  it  struck 
me  suddenly,  as  I  observed  these  homely  pleasant  things: 

"All  this  is  mine." 

I  sprang  up  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Mine,"  I  said. 

It  came  to  me  then  like  an  inspiration  that  I  might  now  go 
out  and  take  formal  possession  of  my  farm.  I  might  experience 
the  emotion  of  a  landowner.  I  might  swell  with  dignity  and 
importance — for  once,  at  least. 

So  I  started  at  the  fence  corner  back  of  the  barn  and  walked 
straight  up  through  the  pasture,  keeping  close  to  my  boundaries, 
that  I  might  not  miss  a  single  rod  of  my  acres.  And  oh,  it  was 
a  prime  afternoon!  The  Lord  made  it!  Sunshine— and  autumn 
haze — and  red  trees — and  yellow  fields — and  blue  distances 
above  the  far-away  town.  And  the  air  had  a  tang  which  got  into 
a  man's  blood  and  set  him  chanting  all  the  poetry  he  ever  knew. 

"1  climb  that  was  a  clod, 

I  run  whose  steps  were  slow, 
I  reap  the  very  wheat  of  God 
That  once  had  none  to  sowl" 


So  I  walked  up  the  margin  of  my  field  looking  broadly  about 
me:  and  presently,  I  began  to  examine  my  fences — my  fences — 
with  a  critical  eye.  I  considered  the  quality  of  the  soil,  though 
in  truth  I  was  not  much  of  a  judge  of  such  matters.  I  gloated 
over  my  plowed  land,  lying  there  open  and  passive  in  the  sun- 
shine. I  said  of  this  tree :  "It  is  mine,"  and  of  its  companion  be- 
yond the  fence:  "It  is  my  neighbour's."  Deeply  and  sharply 
within  myself  I  drew  the  line  between  meum  and  tuum:  for 
only  thus,  by  comparing  ourselves  with  our  neighbours,  can 
we  come  to  the  true  realisation  of  property.  Occasionally  I 
stopped  to  pick  up  a  stone  and  cast  it  over  the  fence,  thinking 
with  some  truculence  that  my  neighbour  would  probably 
throw  it  back  again.  Never  mind,  I  had  it  out  of  my  field.  Once, 
with  eager  surplusage  of  energy,  I  pulled  down  a  dead  and 
partly  rotten  oak  stub,  long  an  eye-sore,  with  an  important 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  17 

feeling  of  proprietorship.  I  could  do  anything  I  liked.  The 
farm  was  mine. 

How  sweet  an  emotion  is  possession!  What  charm  is  inherent 
in  ownership!  What  a  foundation  for  vanity,  even  for  the 
greater  quality  of  self-respect,  lies  in  a  little  property!  I  fell 
to  thinking  of  the  excellent  wording  of  the  old  books  in  which 
land  is  called  "real  property,"  or  "real  estate."  Money  we  may 
possess,  or  goods  or  chattels,  but  they  give  no  such  impression 
of  mineness  as  the  feeling  that  one's  feet  rest  upon  soil  that  is 
his:  that  part  of  the  deep  earth  is  his  with  all  the  water  upon 
it,  all  small  animals  that  creep  or  crawl  in  the  holes  of  it,  all 
birds  or  insects  that  fly  in  the  air  above  it,  all  trees,  shrubs,  flow- 
ers, and  grass  that  grow  upon  it,  all  houses,  barns  and  fences — 
all,  his.  As  I  strode  along  that  afternoon  I  fed  upon  possession. 
I  rolled  the  sweet  morsel  of  ownership  under  my  tongue.  I 
seemed  to  set  my  feet  down  more  firmly  on  the  good  earth.  I 
straightened  my  shoulders:  this  land  was  mine.  I  picked  up  a 
clod  of  earth  and  let  it  crumble  and  drop  through  my  fingers: 
it  gave  me  a  peculiar  and  poignant  feeling  of  possession.  I  can 
understand  why  the  miser  enjoys  the  very  physical  contact  of  his 
gold.  Every  sense  I  possessed,  sight,  hearing,  smell,  touch,  fed 
upon  the  new  joy. 

At  one  corner  of  my  upper  field  the  fence  crosses  an  abrupt 
ravine  upon  leggy  stilts.  My  line  skirts  the  slope  halfway  up. 
My  neighbour  owns  the  crown  of  the  hill  which  he  has  shorn 
until  it  resembles  the  tonsured  pate  of  a  monk.  Every  rain 
brings  the  light  soil  down  the  ravine  and  lays  it  like  a  hand  of 
infertility  upon  my  farm.  It  had  always  bothered  me,  this 
wastage;  and  as  I  looked  across  my  fence  I  thought  to  myself: 

"I  must  have  that  hill.  I  will  buy  it.  I  will  set  the  fence  farther 
up.  I  will  plant  the  slope.  It  is  no  age  of  tonsures  either  in 
religion  or  agriculture." 

The  very  vision  of  widened  acres  set  my  thoughts  on  fire. 
In  imagination  I  extended  my  farm  upon  all  sides,  thinking 
how  much  better  I  could  handle  my  land  than  my  neighbours. 
I  dwelt  avariciously  upon  more  possessions:  I  thought  with 
discontent  of  my  poverty.  More  land  I  wanted.  I  was  enveloped 


18  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

in  clouds  of  envy.  I  coveted  my  neighbour's  land:  I  felt  my- 
self superior  and  Horace  inferior:  I  was  consumed  v^ith  black 

vanity. 

So  I  dealt  hotly  v^ith  these  thoughts  until  I  reached  the  top 
of  the  ridge  at  the  farther  corner  of  my  land.  It  is  the  highest 
point  on  the  farm. 

For  a  moment  I  stood  looking  about  me  on  a  v^^onderful  pros- 
pect of  serene  beauty.  As  it  came  to  me— hills,  fields,  v^oods— 
the  fever  which  had  been  consuming  me  died  down.  I  thought 
how  the  world  stretched  away  from  my  fences— just  such  fields 
—for  a  thousand  miles,  and  in  each  small  enclosure  a  man  as 
hot  as  I  with  the  passion  of  possession.  How  they  all  envied,  and 
hated,  in  their  longing  for  more  land!  How  property  kept 
them  apart,  prevented  the  close,  confident  touch  of  friendship, 
how  it  separated  lovers  and  ruined  families!  Of  all  obstacles 
to  that  complete  democracy  of  which  we  dream,  is  there  a  greater 
than  property? 

I  was  ashamed.  Deep  shame  covered  me.  How  Uttle  of  the 
earth,  after  all,  I  said,  hes  within  the  Hmits  of  my  fences.  And  I 
looked  out  upon  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  world  around  me, 
and  I  saw  how  little  excited  it  was,  how  placid,  how  unde- 
manding. 

I  had  come  here  to  be  free  and  already  this  farm,  which  I 
thought  of  so  fondly  as  my  possession,  was  coming  to  possess 
me.  Ownership  is  an  appetite  like  hunger  or  thirst,  and  as  we 
may  eat  to  gluttony  and  drink  to  drunkenness  so  we  may 
possess  to  avarice.  How  many  men  have  I  seen  who,  though 
they  regard  themselves  as  models  of  temperance,  wear  the 
marks  of  unbridled  indulgence  of  the  passion  of  possession,  and 
how  like  gluttony  or  Ucentiousness  it  sets  its  sure  sign  upon 
their  faces. 

I  said  to  myself.  Why  should  any  man  fence  himself  in? 
And  why  hope  to  enlarge  one's  world  by  the  creeping  acquisi- 
tion of  a  few  acres  to  his  farm?  I  thought  of  the  old  scientist, 
who,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  grass,  remarked:  "Everything 
under  my  hand  is  a  miracle"— forgetting  that  everything  out- 
side was  also  a  miracle. 


19 


20  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

As  I  stood  there  I  glanced  across  the  broad  valley  wherein 
lies  the  most  of  my  farm,  to  the  field  of  buckwheat  which  be- 
longs to  Horace.  For  an  instant  it  gave  me  the  illusion  of  a  hill 
on  fire:  for  the  late  sun  shone  full  on  the  thick  ripe  stalks 
of  the  buckwheat,  giving  forth  an  abundant  red  glory  that 
blessed  the  eye.  Horace  had  been  proud  of  his  crop,  smacking 
his  lips  at  the  prospect  of  winter  pancakes,  and  here  I  was 
entering  his  field  and  taking  without  hindrance  another  crop,  a 
crop  gathered  not  with  hands  nor  stored  in  granaries :  a  wonder- 
ful crop,  which,  once  gathered,  may  long  be  fed  upon  and 
yet  remain  unconsumed. 

So  I  looked  across  the  countryside;  a  group  of  elms  here,  a 
tufted  hilltop  there,  the  smooth  verdure  of  pastures,  the  rich 
brown  of  new-plowed  fields — and  the  odours,  and  the  sounds 
of  the  country — all  cropped  by  me.  How  little  the  fences  keep 
me  out:  I  do  not  regard  titles,  nor  consider  boundaries.  I  enter 
either  by  day  or  by  night,  but  not  secretly.  Taking  my  fill,  I  leave 
as  much  as  I  find. 

And  thus  standing  upon  the  highest  hill  in  my  upper  pasture, 
I  thought  of  the  quoted  saying  of  a  certain  old  abbot  of  the 
middle  ages — "He  that  is  a  true  monk  considers  nothing  as 
belonging  to  him  except  a  lyre." 

What  finer  spirit?  Who  shall  step  forth  freer  than  he  who 
goes  with  nothing  save  his  lyre?  He  shall  sing  as  he  goes:  he 
shall  not  be  held  down  nor  fenced  in. 

With  a  lifting  of  the  soul  I  thought  of  that  old  abbot,  how 
smooth  his  brow,  how  catholic  his  interest,  how  serene  his  out- 
look, how  free  his  friendships,  how  unHmited  his  whole  life. 
Nothing  but  a  lyre! 

So  I  made  a  covenant  there  with  myself.  I  said:  "I  shall  use, 
not  be  used.  I  do  not  limit  myself  here.  I  shall  not  allow  pos- 
sessions to  come  between  me  and  my  life  or  my  friends." 

For  a  time— how  long  I  do  not  know— I  stood  thinking. 
Presently  I  discovered,  moving  slowly  along  the  margin  of  the 
field  below  me,  the  old  professor  with  his  tin  botany  box.  And 
somehow  I  had  no  feeling  that  he  was  intruding  upon  my  new 
land.  His  walk  was  slow  and  methodical,  his  head  and  even 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  21 

his  shoulders  were  bent — almost  habitually — ^from  looking  close 
upon  the  earth,  and  from  time  to  time  he  stooped,  and  once 
he  knelt  to  examine  some  object  that  attracted  his  eye.  It 
seemed  appropriate  that  he  should  thus  kneel  to  the  earth.  So  he 
gathered  his  crop  and  fences  did  not  keep  him  out  nor  titles 
disturb  him.  He  also  was  free!  It  gave  me  at  that  moment  a 
pecuHar  pleasure  to  have  him  on  my  land,  to  know  that  I  was, 
if  unconsciously,  raising  other  crops  than  I  knew.  I  felt  friend- 
ship for  this  old  professor:  I  could  understand  him,  I  thought. 
And  I  said  aloud  but  in  a  low  tone,  as  though  I  were  addressing 
him: 

— Do  not  apologise,  friend,  when  you  come  into  my  field. 
You  do  not  interrupt  me.  What  you  have  come  for  is  of  more  im- 
portance at  this  moment  than  corn.  Who  is  it  that  says  I  must 
plow  so  many  furrows  this  day?  Come  in,  friend,  and  sit  here 
on  these  clods:  we  will  sweeten  the  evening  with  fine  words.  We 
will  invest  our  time  not  in  corn,  or  in  cash,  but  in  life. — 

I  walked  with  confidence  down  the  hill  toward  the  professor. 
So  engrossed  was  he  with  his  employment  that  he  did  not  see 
me  until  I  was  within  a  few  paces  of  him.  When  he  looked  up 
at  me  it  was  as  though  his  eyes  returned  from  some  far  journey. 
I  felt  at  first  out  of  focus,  unplaced,  and  only  gradually  coming 
into  view.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  lump  of  earth  containing  a 
thrifty  young  plant  of  the  purple  cone-flower,  having  several 
blossoms.  He  worked  at  the  lump  deftly,  deUcately,  so  that  the 
earth,  pinched,  powdered  and  shaken  out,  fell  between  his 
fingers,  leaving  the  knotty  yellow  roots  in  his  hand.  I  marked 
how  firm,  slow,  brown,  the  old  man  was,  how  Uttle  obtrusive  in 
my  field.  One  foot  rested  in  a  furrow,  the  other  was  set  among 
the  grass  of  the  margin,  near  the  fence — his  place,  I  thought. 

His  first  words,  though  of  little  moment  in  themselves,  gave 
me  a  curious  satisfaction,  as  when  a  coin,  tested,  rings  true  gold, 
or  a  hero,  tried,  is  heroic. 

"I  have  rarely,"  he  said,  "seen  a  finer  display  of  rudbeckia 
than  this,  along  these  old  fences." 

If  he  had  referred  to  me,  or  questioned,  or  apologised,  I 
should  have  been  disappointed.  He  did  not  say,  "your  fences," 


22  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

he  said  "these  fences,"  as  though  they  were  as  much  his  as  mine. 
And  he  spoke  in  his  own  world,  knowing  that  if  I  could  enter 
I  would,  but  that  if  I  could  not,  no  stooping  to  me  would  avail 
either  of  us. 

"It  has  been  a  good  autumn  for  flowers,"  I  said  inanely,  for 
so  many  things  were  flying  through  my  mind  that  I  could  not 
at  once  think  of  the  great  particular  words  which  should  bring 
us  together.  At  first  I  thought  my  chance  had  passed,  but  he 
seemed  to  see  something  in  me  after  all,  for  he  said : 

"Here  is  a  peculiarly  large  specimen  of  the  rudbeckia.  Ob- 
serve the  deep  purple  of  the  cone,  and  the  bright  yellow  of  the 
petals.  Here  is  another  that  grew  hardly  two  feet  away,  in  the 
grass  near  the  fence  where  the  rails  and  the  blackberry  bushes 
have  shaded  it.  How  small  and  undeveloped  it  is." 

"They  crowd  up  to  the  plowed  land,"  I  observed. 

"Yes,  they  reach  out  for  a  better  chance  in  life — like  men.  With 
more  room,  better  food,  freer  air,  you  see  how  much  finer  they 
grow." 

It  was  curious  to  me,  having  hitherto  barely  observed  the  cone- 
flowers  along  my  fences,  save  as  a  colour  of  beauty,  how  simple 
we  fell  to  talking  of  them  as  though  in  truth  they  were  people 
like  ourselves,  having  our  desires  and  possessed  of  our  capabili- 
ties. It  gave  me  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  feehng  which  has 
since  meant  such  varied  enjoyment,  of  the  peopling  of  the 
woods. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  23 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "how  different  the  character  of  these 
individuals.  They  are  all  of  the  same  species.  They  all  grow 
along  this  fence  within  two  or  three  rods;  but  observe  the 
difference  not  only  in  size  but  in  colouring,  in  the  shape  of 
the  petals,  in  the  proportions  of  the  cone.  What  does  it  all 
mean?  Why,  nature  trying  one  of  her  endless  experiments. 
She  sows  here  broadly,  trying  to  produce  better  cone-flowers.  A 
few  she  plants  on  the  edge  of  the  field  in  the  hope  that  they  may 
escape  the  plow.  If  they  grow,  better  food  and  more  sunshine 
produce  more  and  larger  flowers." 

So  we  talked,  or  rather  he  talked,  finding  in  me  an  eager 
listener.  And  what  he  called  botany  seemed  to  me  to  be  life. 
Of  birth,  of  growth,  of  reproduction,  of  death,  he  spoke,  and 
his  flowers  became  sentient  creatures  under  my  eyes. 

And  thus  the  sun  went  down  and  the  purple  mists  crept 
silently  along  the  distant  low  spots,  and  all  the  great,  great  mys- 
teries came  and  stood  before  me  beckoning  and  questioning. 
They  came  and  they  stood,  and  out  of  the  cone-flower,  as  the 
old  professor  spoke,  I  seemed  to  catch  a  glimmer  of  the  true 
light.  I  reflected  how  truly  everything  is  in  anything.  If  one 
could  really  understand  a  cone-flower  he  could  understand  this 
Earth.  Botany  was  only  one  road  toward  the  Explanation. 

Always  I  hope  that  some  traveller  may  have  more  news  of  the 
way  than  I,  and  sooner  or  later,  I  find  I  must  make  inquiry  of 
the  direction  of  every  thoughtful  man  I  meet.  And  I  have  al- 
ways had  especial  hope  of  those  who  study  the  sciences:  they 
ask  such  intimate  questions  of  nature.  Theology  possesses  a 
vain-gloriousness  which  places  its  faith  in  human  theories;  but 
science,  at  its  best,  is  humble  before  nature  herself.  It  has  no 
thesis  to  defend:  it  is  content  to  kneel  upon  the  earth,  in  the 
way  of  my  friend,  the  old  professor,  and  ask  the  simplest  ques- 
tions, hoping  for  some  true  reply. 

I  wondered,  then,  what  the  professor  thought,  after  his  years 
of  work,  of  the  Mystery;  and  finally,  not  without  confusion,  I 
asked  him.  He  listened,  for  the  first  time  ceasing  to  dig,  shake 
out  and  arrange  his  specimens.  When  I  had  stopped  speaking 
he  remained  for  a  moment  silent,  then  he  looked  ?^  me^  with  a 


24  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

new  regard.  Finally  he  quoted  quietly,  but  with  a  deep  note  in 
his  voice: 

"Canst  thou  by  searching  find  God?  Canst  thou  find  out  the  Al- 
mighty unto  perfection?  It  is  as  high  as  heaven:  what  canst  thou  do? 
deeper  than  hell,  what  canst  thou  know?" 

When  the  professor  had  spoken  we  stood  for  a  moment 
silent,  then  he  smiled  and  said  briskly: 

"I  have  been  a  botanist  for  fifty-four  years.  When  I  was  a 
boy  I  believed  impHcitly  in  God.  I  prayed  to  him,  having  a  vision 
of  him — a  person — before  my  eyes.  As  I  grew  older  I  concluded 
that  there  was  no  God.  I  dismissed  him  from  the  universe.  I 
believed  only  in  what  I  could  see,  or  hear,  or  feel.  I  talked 
about  Nature  and  ReaUty." 

He  paused,  the  smile  still  lighting  his  face,  evidently  recalling 
to  himself  the  old  days.  I  did  not  interrupt  him.  Finally  he 
turned  to  me  and  said  abruptly, 

"And  now — it  seems  to  me — there  is  nothing  but  God." 

As  he  said  this  he  lifted  his  arm  with  a  pecuUar  gesture  that 
seemed  to  take  in  the  whole  world. 

For  a  time  we  were  both  silent.  When  I  left  him  I  offered  my 
hand  and  told  him  I  hoped  I  might  become  his  friend.  So  I 
turned  my  face  toward  home.  Evening  was  falling,  and  as  I 
walked  I  heard  the  crows  calling,  and  the  air  was  keen  and 
cool,  and  I  thought  deep  thoughts. 

And  so  I  stepped  into  the  darkened  stable.  I  could  not  see 
the  outlines  of  the  horse  or  the  cow,  but  knowing  the  place  so 
well  I  could  easily  get  about.  I  heard  the  horse  step  aside  with 
a  soft  expectant  whinny.  I  smelled  the  smell  of  milk,  the  musty, 
sharp  odour  of  dry  hay,  the  pungent  smell  of  manure,  not  un- 
pleasant. And  the  stable  was  warm  after  the  cool  of  the  fields 
with  a  sort  of  animal  warmth  that  struck  into  me  soothingly.  I 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  and  laid  my  hand  on  the  horse's  flank.  The 
flesh  quivered  and  shrunk  away  from  my  touch— coming  back 
confidently,  warmly.  I  ran  my  hand  along  his  back  and  up  his 
hairy  neck.  I  felt  his  sensitive  nose  in  my  hand.  "You  shall  have 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  25 

your  oats,"  I  said,  and  I  gave  him  to  eat.  Then  I  spoke  as  gently 
to  the  cow,  and  she  stood  aside  to  be  milked. 

And  afterward  I  came  out  into  the  clear  bright  night,  and  the 
air  was  sweet  and  cool,  and  my  dog  came  bounding  to  meet  me, 
— So  I  carried  the  milk  into  the  house,  and  Harriet  said  in  her 
heartiest  tone: 

"You  are  late,  David.  But  sit  up,  I  have  kept  the  biscuits 
warm." 

And  that  night  my  sleep  was  sound. 


IV 


ENTERTAIN  AN  AGENT  UNAWARES 


Wn 


iTH  THE  COMING  OF  WINTER  I  thought  the  life  of  a  farmer 
might  lose  something  of  its  charm.  So  much  interest  lies  in  the 
growth  not  only  of  crops  but  of  trees,  vines,  flowers,  sentiments 
and  emotions.  In  the  summer  the  world  is  busy,  concerned 
with  many  things  and  full  of  gossip :  in  the  winter  I  anticipated 
a  cessation  of  many  active  interests  and  enthusiasms.  I  looked 
forward  to  having  time  for  my  books  and  for  the  quiet  contem- 
plation of  the  life  around  me.  Summer  indeed  is  for  activity, 
winter  for  reflection.  But  when  winter  really  came  every  day 
discovered  some  new  work  to  do  or  some  new  adventure  to 
enjoy.  It  is  surprising  how  many  things  happen  on  a  small  farm. 
Examining  the  book  which  accounts  for  that  winter,  I  find  the 
history  of  part  of  a  forenoon,  which  will  illustrate  one  of 
the  curious  adventures  of  a  farmer's  life.  It  is  dated  January  5. 

I  went  out  this  morning  with  my  axe  and  hammer  to  mend  the 
fence  along  the  public  road.  A  heavy  frost  fell  last  night  and 
the  brown  grass  and  the  dry  ruts  of  the  roads  were  powdered 
white.  Even  the  air,  which  was  perfectly  still,  seemed  full  of 
frost  crystals,  so  that  when  the  sun  came  up  one  seemed  to  walk 
in  a  magic  world.  I  drew  in  a  long  breath  and  looked  out  across 
the  wonderful  shining  country  and  I  said  to  myself: 

"Surely,  there  is  nowhere  I  would  rather  be  than  here."  For 
I  could  have  travelled  nowhere  to  find  greater  beauty  or  a  better 
enjoyment  of  it  than  I  had  here  at  home. 

26 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT      27 

As  I  worked  with  my  axe  and  hammer,  I  heard  a  Hght  wagon 
come  ratthng  up  the  road.  Across  the  valley  a  man  had  begun 
to  chop  a  tree.  I  could  see  the  axe  steel  flash  brilliantly  in  the 
sunshine  before  I  heard  the  sound  o£  the  blow. 

The  man  in  the  wagon  had  a  round  face  and  a  sharp  blue 
eye.  I  thought  he  seemed  a  businesslike  young  man. 

"Say,  there,"  he  shouted,  drawing  up  at  my  gate,  "would  you 
mind  holding  my  horse  a  minute  ?  It's  a  cold  morning  and  he's 
restless." 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said,  and  I  put  down  my  tools  and  held  his. 
horse. 

He  walked  up  to  my  door  with  a  brisk  step  and  a  certain 
jaunty  poise  of  the  head. 

"He  is  well  contented  with  himself,"  I  said.  "It  is  a  great 
blessing  for  any  man  to  be  satisfied  with  what  he  has  got." 

I  heard  Harriet  open  the  door — how  every  sound  rang  throughi 
the  still  morning  air! 

The  young  man  asked  some  question  and  I  distinctly  heard 
Harriet's  answer: 

"He's  down  there." 

The  young  man  came  back:  his  hat  was  tipped  up,  his  quick 
eye  darted  over  my  grounds  as  though  in  a  single  instant  he  had 
appraised  everything  and  passed  judgment  upon  the  cash  value 
of  the  inhabitants.  He  whistled  a  lively  Uttle  tune. 

"Say,"  he  said,  when  he  reached  the  gate,  not  at  all  discon- 
certed, "I  thought  you  was  the  hired  man.  Your  name's  Grayson,, 
ain't  it?  Well,  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

After  tying  and  blanketing  his  horse  and  taking  a  black 
satchel  from  his  buggy  he  led  me  up  to  my  house.  I  had  a 
pleasurable  sense  of  excitement  and  adventure.  Here  was  a 
new  character  come  to  my  farm.  Who  knows,  I  thought,  what 
he  may  bring  with  him:  who  knows  what  I  may  send  away  by 
him?  Here  in  the  country  we  must  set  our  little  ships  afloat  on 
small  streams,  hoping  that  somehow,  some  day,  they  will 
reach  the  sea. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  the  busy  young  man  sit  down  sa 
confidently  in  our  best  chair.  He  said  his  name  was  Dixon,  and 


28  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

he  took  out  from  his  satchel  a  book  with  a  line  showy  coven 
He  said  it  was  called  "Living  Selections  from  Poet,  Sage  and 
Humourist." 

"This,"  he  told  me,  "is  only  the  first  of  the  series.  We  publish 
six  volumes  full  of  hterchoor.  You  see  what  a  heavy  book  this 
is?" 

I  tested  it  in  my  hand;  it  was  a  heavy  book. 

"The  entire  set,"  he  said,  "weighs  over  ten  pounds.  There  are 
1,162  pages,  enough  paper  if  laid  down  flat,  end  to  end,  to  reach 
half  a  mile." 

I  cannot  quote  his  exact  language:  there  was  too  much  of  it, 
but  he  made  an  impressive  showing  of  the  amount  of  literature 
that  could  be  had  at  a  very  low  price  per  pound.  Mr.  Dixon  was 
a  hypnotist.  He  fixed  me  with  his  glittering  eye,  and  he  talked 
so  fast,  and  his  ideas  upon  the  subject  were  so  original  that  he 
held  me  spellbound.  At  first  I  was  inclined  to  be  provoked; 
one  does  not  like  to  be  forcibly  hypnotised,  but  gradually  the 
situation  began  to  amuse  me,  the  more  so  when  Harriet 
came  in. 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  beautiful  binding?"  asked  the 
agent,  holding  his  book  admiringly  at  arm's  length.  "This  up 
here,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  illuminated  cover,  "is  the  Muse 
of  Poetry.  She  is  scattering  flowers — poems,  you  know.  Fine 
idea,  ain't  it?  Colouring  fine,  too." 

He  jumped  up  quickly  and  laid  the  book  on  my  table,  to  the 
evident  distress  of  Harriet. 

"Trims  up  the  room,  don't  it?"  he  exclaimed,  turning  his 
head  a  Httle  to  one  side  and  observing  the  effect  with  an  ex- 
pression of  affectionate  admiration. 

"How  much,"  I  asked,  "will  you  sell  the  covers  for  without 
the  insides?" 

"Without  the  insides?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "the  binding  will  trim  up  my  table  just  as  well 
without  the  insides." 

I  thought  he  looked  at  me  a  little  suspiciously,  but  he  was  evi- 
dently satisfied  by  my  expression  of  countenance,  for  he  an- 
swered promptly: 


^ 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  29 

"Oh,  but  you  want  the  insides.  That's  what  the  books  are 
for.  The  bindings  are  never  sold  alone." 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  me  the  prices  and  terms  of  payment, 
until  it  really  seemed  that  it  would  be  cheaper  to  buy  the  books 
than  to  let  him  carry  them  away  again.  Harriet  stood  in  the 
doorway  behind  him  frowning  and  evidently  trying  to  catch  my 
eye.  But  I  kept  my  face  turned  aside  so  that  I  could  not  see  her 
signal  of  distress  and  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  young  man  Dixon. 
It  was  as  good  as  a  play.  Harriet  there,  serious-minded,  thinking 
I  was  being  befooled,  and  the  agent  thinking  he  was  befooling 
me,  and  I,  thinking  I  was  befooHng  both  of  them — and  all  of 
us  wrong.  It  was  very  like  life  wherever  you  find  it. 

Finally,  I  took  the  book  which  he  had  been  urging  upon  me, 
at  which  Harriet  coughed  meaningly  to  attract  my  attention. 
She  knew  the  danger  when  I  really  got  my  hands  on  a  book. 
But  I  made  up  as  innocent  as  a  child.  I  opened  the  book  almost 
at  random— and  it  was  as  though,  walking  down  a  strange  road, 
I  had  come  upon  an  old  tried  friend  not  seen  before  in  years. 
For  there  on  the  page  before  me  I  read: 

"The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
But  are  up-gathered  now  li\e  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not." 

And  as  I  read  it  came  back  to  me — a  scene  like  a  picture — 
the  place,  the  time,  the  very  feel  of  the  hour  when  I  first  saw 
those  lines.  Who  shall  say  that  the  past  does  not  live!  An  odour 
will  sometimes  set  the  blood  coursing  in  an  old  emotion,  and  a 
line  of  poetry  is  the  resurrection  and  the  life.  For  a  moment  I 
forgot  Harriet  and  the  agent,  I  forgot  myself,  I  even  forgot 
the  book  on  my  knee — everything  but  that  hour  in  the  past — a 
view  of  shimmering  hot  housetops,  the  heat  and  dust  and 


30  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

noise  of  an  August  evening  in  the  city,  the  dumb  weariness  of  it 
all,  the  loneliness,  the  longing  for  green  fields;  and  then  these 
great  lines  of  Wordsworth,  read  for  the  first  time,  flooding  in 
upon  me: 

"Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suc\led  in  a  creed  outworn: 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  ma\e  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
And  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

When  I  had  finished  I  found  myself  standing  in  my  own 
room  with  one  arm  raised,  and,  I  suspect,  a  trace  of  tears  in 
my  eyes — there  before  the  agent  and  Harriet.  I  saw  Harriet  lift 
one  hand  and  drop  it  hopelessly.  She  thought  I  was  captured 
at  last.  I  was  past  saving.  And  as  I  looked  at  the  agent  I  saw 
"grim  conquest  glowing  in  his  eye!"  So  I  sat  down  not  a  little 
embarrassed  by  my  exhibition — when  I  had  intended  to  be 
self-poised. 

"You  like  it,  don't  you?"  said  Mr.  Dixon  unctuously. 

"I  don't  see,"  I  said  earnestly,  "how  you  can  afford  to  sell  such 
things  as  this  so  cheap." 

"They  are  cheap,"  he  admitted  regretfully.  I  suppose  he  wished 
he  had  tried  me  with  the  half-morocco. 

"They  are  priceless,"  I  said,  "absolutely  priceless.  If  you  were 
the  only  man  in  the  world  who  had  that  poem,  I  think  I  would 
deed  you  my  farm  for  it." 

Mr.  Dixon  proceeded,  as  though  it  were  all  settled,  to  get  out 
his  black  order  book  and  open  it  briskly  for  business.  He  drew 
his  fountain  pen,  capped  it,  and  looked  up  at  me  expectantly. 
My  feet  actually  seemed  slipping  into  some  irresistible  whirl- 
pool. How  well  he  understood  practical  psychology!  I  struggled 
within  myself,  fearing  engulfment:  I  was  all  but  lost. 

"Shall  I  dehver  the  set  at  once,"  he  said,  "or  can  you  wait 
until  the  first  of  February?" 

At  that  critical  moment  a  floating  spar  of  an  idea  swept  my 
way  and  I  seized  upon  it  as  the  last  hope  of  the  lost. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 


31 


"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  beautiful  binding?" 


"I  don't  understand,"  I  said,  as  though  I  had  not  heard  his  last 
question,  "how  you  dare  go  about  with  all  this  treasure  upon 
you.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  being  stopped  in  the  road  and 
robbed?  Why,  I've  seen  the  time  when,  if  I  had  known  you 
carried  such  things  as  these,  such  cures  for  sick  hearts,  I  think 
I  should  have  stopped  you  myself!" 

"Say,  you  are  an  odd  one,"  said  Mr.  Dixon. 

"Why  do  you  sell  such  priceless  things  as  these?"  I  asked, 
looking  at  him  sharply. 

"Why  do  I  sell  them?"  and  he  looked  still  more  perplexed. 
"To  make  money,  of  course;  same  reason  you  raise  corn." 


32  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"But  here  is  wealth,"  I  said,  pursuing  my  advantage.  "I£ 
you  have  these  you  have  something  more  valuable  than  money." 

Mr.  Dixon  politely  said  nothing.  Like  a  wise  angler,  having 
failed  to  land  me  at  the  first  rush,  he  let  me  have  Hne.  Then  I 
thought  of  Ruskin's  words,  "Nor  can  any  noble  thing  be  wealth 
except  to  a  noble  person."  And  that  prompted  me  to  say  to 
Mr.  Dixon : 

"These  things  are  not  yours;  they  are  mine.  You  never  owned 
them;  but  I  will  sell  them  to  you." 

He  looked  at  me  in  amazement,  and  then  glanced  around— ^ 
evidently  to  discover  if  there  were  a  convenient  way  of  escape 

"You're  all  straight,  are  you?"  he  asked,  tapping  his  forehead; 
"didn't  anybody  ever  try  to  take  you  up?" 

"The  covers  are  yours,"  I  continued  as  though  I  had  not 
heard  him,  "the  insides  are  mine  and  have  been  for  a  long  time: 
that  is  why  I  proposed  buying  the  covers  separately." 

I  opened  his  book  again.  I  thought  I  would  see  what  had 
been  chosen  for  its  pages.  And  I  found  there  many  fine  and 
great  things. 

"Let  me  read  you  this,"  I  said  to  Mr.  Dixon;  "it  has  been  mine 
for  a  long  time.  I  will  not  sell  it  to  you.  I  will  give  it  to  you  out- 
right. The  best  things  are  always  given." 

Having  some  gift  in  imitating  the  Scotch  dialect,  I  read : 

"November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 

The  short' fling  winter  day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  blacJ(ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  wee\ly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattoc\s  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend" 

So  I  read  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night."  I  love  the  poem  very 
much  myself,  sometimes  reading  it  aloud,  not  so  much  for  the 
tenderness  of  its  message,  though  I  prize  that,  too,  as  for  the 
wonder  of  its  music: 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT      33 

"  Com  par' d  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 
The  tic\rd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise." 

I  suppose  I  showed  my  feeling  in  my  voice.  As  I  glanced  up 
from  time  to  time  I  saw  the  agent's  face  change,  and  his  look 
deepen  and  the  Hps,  usually  so  energetically  tense,  loosen  with 
emotion.  Surely  no  poem  in  all  the  language  conveys  so  perfectly 


the  simple  love  of  the  home,  the  quiet  joys,  hopes,  pathos  of 
those  who  live  close  to  the  soil. 
When  I  had  finished — I  stopped  with  the  stanza  beginning: 

"Then  homeward  all  ta\e  off  their  sev'ral  way"; 

the  agent  turned  away  his  head  trying  to  brave  out  his  emo- 
tion. Most  of  us,  Anglo-Saxons,  tremble  before  a  tear  when  we 
might  fearlessly  beard  a  tiger. 

I  moved  up  nearer  to  the  agent  and  put  my  hand  on  his  knee; 
then  I  read  two  or  three  of  the  other  things  I  found  in  his  won- 
derful book.  And  once  I  had  him  laughing  and  once  again  I  had 
the  tears  in  his  eyes.  Oh,  a  simple  young  man,  a  little  crusty  with- 
out, but  soft  inside — like  the  rest  of  us. 

Well,  it  was  amazing  once  we  began  talking  not  of  books  but 
of  life,  how  really  eloquent  and  human  he  became.  From  being 
a  distant  and  uncomfortable  person,  he  became  at  once  like  a 


34  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

near  neighbour  and  friend.  It  was  strange  to  me — as  I  have 
thought  since — how  he  conveyed  to  us  in  a  few  words  the 
essential  emotional  note  of  his  life.  It  was  no  vioUn  tone,  beauti- 
fully complex  with  harmonics,  but  the  clear  simple  voice  of  the 
flute.  It  spoke  of  his  wife  and  his  baby  girl  and  his  home.  The 
very  incongruity  of  detail — he  told  us  how  he  grew  onions  in 
his  back  yard — added  somehow  to  the  homely  glamour  of  the 
vision  which  he  gave  us.  The  number  of  his  house,  the  fact 
that  he  had  a  new  cottage  organ,  and  that  the  baby  ran  away 
and  lost  herself  in  Seventeenth  Street— were  all,  curiously, 
fabrics  of  his  emotion. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  commonplace  facts  grow  phosphor- 
escent in  the  heat  of  true  feeling.  How  Httle  we  may  come  to 
know  Romance  by  the  cloak  she  wears  and  how  humble  must 
be  he  who  would  surprise  the  heart  of  her! 

It  was,  indeed,  with  an  indescribable  thrill  that  I  heard  him 
add  the  details,  one  by  one— the  mortgage  on  his  place,  now 
rapidly  being  paid  off,  the  brother  who  was  a  plumber,  the 
mother-in-law  who  was  not  a  mother-in-law  of  the  comic  papers. 
And  finally  he  showed  us  the  picture  of  the  wife  and  baby  that 
he  had  in  the  cover  of  his  watch;  a  fat  baby  with  its  head  resting 
on  its  mother's  shoulder. 

"Mister,"  he  said,  "p'raps  you  think  it's  fun  to  ride  around  the 
country  like  I  do,  and  be  away  from  home  most  of  the  time.  But 
it  ain't.  When  I  think  of  Minnie  and  the  kid " 

He  broke  off  sharply,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  remembered  the 
shame  of  such  confidences. 

"Say,"  he  asked,  "what  page  is  that  poem  on?" 

I  told  him. 

"One  forty-six,"  he  said.  "When  I  get  home  I'm  going  to  read 
that  to  Minnie.  She  Ukes  poetry  and  all  such  things.  And 
where's  that  other  piece  that  tells  how  a  man  feels  when  he's 
lonesome?  Say,  that  fellow  knew!" 

We  had  a  genuinely  good  time,  the  agent  and  I,  and  when 
he  finally  rose  to  go,  I  said: 

"Well,  I've  sold  you  a  new  book." 

"I  see  now,  mister,  what  you  mean." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  35 

I  went  down  the  path  with  him  and  began  to  unhitch  his 
horse. 

"Let  me,  let  me,"  he  said  eagerly. 

Then  he  shook  hands,  paused  a  moment  awkwardly  as  if 
about  to  say  something,  then  sprang  into  his  buggy  without  say- 
ing it. 

When  he  had  taken  up  his  reins  he  remarked: 

"Say!  but  you'd  make  an  agent!  You'd  hypnotise  'em." 

I  recognised  it  as  the  greatest  compliment  he  could  pay  me: 
the  craft  compliment. 

Then  he  drove  off,  but  pulled  up  before  he  had  gone  five 
yards.  He  turned  in  his  seat,  one  hand  on  the  back  of  it,  his 
whip  raised. 

"Say!"  he  shouted,  and  when  I  walked  up  he  looked  at  me 
with  fine  embarrassment. 

"Mister,  perhaps  you'd  accept  one  of  these  sets  from  Dixon 
free  gratis,  for  nothing." 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  "but  you  know  I'm  giving  the  books 
to  you — and  I  couldn't  take  them  back  again." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you're  a  good  one,  anyhow.  Good-bye  again," 
and  then,  suddenly,  business  naturally  coming  uppermost,  he 
remarked  with  great  enthusiasm: 

"You've  given  me  a  new  idea.  Say,  I'll  sell  'em." 

"Carry  them  carefully,  man,"  I  called  after  him;  "they  are 
precious." 

So  I  went  back  to  my  work,  thinking  how  many  fine  people 
there  are  in  this  world — if  you  scratch  'em  deep  enough. 


'Horace  'hefted'  it' 


THE  AXE-HELVE 


April  the  i^th, 

Xhis  morning  I  broke  my  old  axe  handle.  I  went  out  early 
while  the  fog  still  filled  the  valley  and  the  air  was  cool  and  moist 
as  it  had  come  fresh  from  the  filter  of  the  night.  I  drew  a  long 
breath  and  let  my  axe  fall  with  all  the  force  I  could  give  it  upon 
a  new  oak  log.  I  swung  it  unnecessarily  high  for  the  joy  of 
doing  it  and  when  it  struck  it  communicated  a  sharp  yet  not 
unpleasant  sting  to  the  palms  of  my  hands.  The  handle  broke 
short  off  at  the  point  where  the  helve  meets  the  steel.  The 
blade  was  driven  deep  in  the  oak  wood.  I  suppose  I  should  have 
regretted  my  fooUshness,  but  I  did  not.  The  handle  was  old 
and  somewhat  worn,  and  the  accident  gave  me  an  indefinable 
satisfaction:  the  culmination  of  use,  that  final  destruction  which 
is  the  complement  of  great  effort. 

This  feeling  was  also  partly  prompted  by  the  thought  of  the 
new  helve  I  already  had  in  store,  awaiting  just  such  a  catastrophe. 

36 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  37 

Having  come  somewhat  painfully  by  that  helve,  I  really  wanted 
to  see  it  in  use. 

Last  spring,  walking  in  my  fields,  I  looked  out  along  the 
fences  for  a  well-fitted  young  hickory  tree  of  thrifty  second 
growth,  bare  of  knots  at  least  head  high,  without  the  cracks  or 
fissures  of  too  rapid  growth  or  the  doziness  of  early  trans- 
gression. What  I  desired  was  a  fine,  healthy  tree  fitted  for  a 
great  purpose  and  I  looked  for  it  as  I  would  look  for  a  perfect 
man  to  save  a  failing  cause.  At  last  I  found  a  sapUng  growing 
in  one  of  the  sheltered  angles  of  my  rail  fence.  It  was  set  about 
by  dry  grass,  overhung  by  a  much  larger  cherry  tree,  and  bear- 
ing still  its  withered  last  year's  leaves,  worn  diaphanous  but 
curled  delicately,  and  of  a  most  beautiful  ash  gray  colour, 
something  like  the  fabric  of  a  wasp's  nest,  only  yellower.  I  gave 
it  a  shake  and  it  sprung  quickly  under  my  hand  like  the  muscle 
of  a  good  horse.  Its  bark  was  smooth  and  trim,  its  bole  well  set 
and  soUd. 

A  perfect  tree!  So  I  came  up  again  with  my  short  axe  and  after 
clearing  away  the  grass  and  leaves  with  which  the  wind  had 
mulched  it,  I  cut  into  the  clean  white  roots.  I  had  no  twinge 
of  compunction,  for  was  this  not  fulfillment?  Nothing  comes 
of  sorrow  for  worthy  sacrifice.  When  I  had  laid  the  tree  low,  I 
clipped  off  the  lower  branches,  snapped  off  the  top  with  a  single 
clean  stroke  of  the  axe,  and  shouldered  as  pretty  a  second- 
growth  sapling  stick  as  anyone  ever  laid  his  eyes  upon. 

I  carried  it  down  to  my  barn  and  put  it  on  the  open  rafters 
over  the  cow  stalls.  A  cow  stable  is  warm  and  not  too  dry,  so 
that  a  hickory  log  cures  slowly  without  cracking  or  checking. 
There  it  lay  for  many  weeks.  Often  I  cast  my  eyes  up  at  it  with 
satisfaction,  watching  the  bark  shrink  and  slightly  deepen  in 
colour,  and  once  I  cHmbed  up  where  I  could  see  the  minute 
seams  making  way  in  the  end  of  the  stick. 

In  the  summer  I  brought  the  stick  into  the  house,  and  put  it 
in  the  dry,  warm  storeroom  over  the  kitchen  where  I  keep  my 
seed  corn.  I  do  not  suppose  it  really  needed  further  attention,  but 
sometimes  when  I  chanced  to  go  into  the  storeroom,  I  turned  it 
over  with  my  foot.  I  felt  a  sort  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that 


38  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

it  was  in  preparation  for  service:  good  material  for  useful 
work.  So  it  lay  during  the  autumn  and  far  into  the  winter. 

One  cold  night  when  I  sat  comfortably  at  my  fireplace,  listen- 
ing to  the  wind  outside,  and  feeling  all  the  ease  of  a  man  at 
peace  with  himself,  my  mind  took  flight  to  my  snowy  field  sides 
and  I  thought  of  the  trees  there  waiting  and  resting  through 
the  winter.  So  I  came  in  imagination  to  the  particular  corner  in 
the  fence  where  I  had  cut  my  hickory  sapling.  Instantly  I  started 
up,  much  to  Harriet's  astonishment,  and  made  my  way  mys- 
teriously up  the  kitchen  stairs.  I  would  not  tell  what  I  was 
after:  I  felt  it  a  sort  of  adventure,  almost  like  the  joy  of  seeing  a 
friend  long  forgotten.  It  was  as  if  my  hickory  stick  had  cried 
out  at  last,  after  long  chrysalishood : 

"I  am  ready." 

I  stood  it  on  end  and  struck  it  sharply  with  my  knuckles:  it 
rang  out  with  a  certain  clear  resonance. 

"I  am  ready." 

I  sniffed  at  the  end  of  it.  It  exhaled  a  peculiar  good  smell,  as 
of  old  fields  in  the  autumn. 

"I  am  ready." 

So  I  took  it  under  my  arm  and  carried  it  down. 

"Mercy,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  exclaimed  Harriet. 

"Deliberately,  and  with  malice  aforethought,"  I  responded,  "I 
am  going  to  litter  up  your  floor.  I  have  decided  to  be  reckless. 
I  don't  care  what  happens." 

Having  made  this  declaration,  which  Harriet  received  with 
becoming  disdain,  I  laid  the  log  by  the  fireplace — not  too  near 
— and  went  to  fetch  a  saw,  a  hammer,  a  small  wedge,  and  a 
draw-shave. 

I  spHt  my  log  into  as  fine  white  sections  as  a  man  ever  saw — 
every  piece  as  straight  as  morality,  and  without  so  much  as  a 
sliver  to  mar  it.  Nothing  is  so  satisfactory  as  to  have  a  task  come 
out  in  perfect  time  and  in  good  order.  The  Uttle  pieces  of  bark 
and  sawdust  I  swept  scrupulously  into  the  fireplace,  looking  up 
from  time  to  time  to  see  how  Harriet  was  taking  it.  Harriet  wai 
5till  disdainful. 

Making  an  axe-helve  is  like  writing  a  poem  (though  I  never 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  39 

wrote  one).  The  material  is  free  enough,  but  it  takes  a  poet  to 
use  it.  Some  people  imagine  that  any  fine  thought  is  poetry,  but 
there  was  never  a  greater  mistake.  A  fine  thought,  to  become 
poetry,  must  be  seasoned  in  the  upper  warm  garrets  of  the  mind 
for  long  and  long,  then  it  must  be  brought  down  and  slowly 
carved  into  words,  shaped  with  emotion,  polished  with  love. 
Else  it  is  no  true  poem.  Some  people  imagine  that  any  hickory 
stick  will  make  an  axe-helve.  But  this  is  far  from  the  truth. 
When  I  had  whittled  away  for  several  evenings  with  my  draw- 
shave  and  jack-knife,  both  of  which  I  keep  sharpened  to  the 
keenest  edge,  I  found  that  my  work  was  not  progressing  as  well 
as  I  had  hoped. 

"This  is  more  of  a  task,"  I  remarked  one  evening,  "than  I  had 
imagined." 

Harriet,  rocking  placidly  in  her  arm-chair,  was  mending  a 
number  of  pairs  of  new  socks.  Poor  Harriet!  Lacking  enough  old 
holes  to  occupy  her  energies,  she  mends  holes  that  may  possibly 
appear.  A  frugal  person! 

"Well,  David,"  she  said,  "I  warned  you  that  you  could  buy  a 
helve  cheaper  than  you  could  make  it." 

"So  I  can  buy  a  book  cheaper  than  I  can  write  it,"  I  responded. 

I  felt  somewhat  pleased  with  my  return  shot,  though  I  took 
pains  not  to  show  it.  I  squinted  along  my  hickory  stick  which 
was  even  then  beginning  to  assume,  rudely,  the  outlines  of  an 
axe-handle.  I  had  made  a  prodigious  pile  of  fine  white  shavings 
and  I  was  tired,  but  quite  suddenly  there  came  over  me  a  sort 
of  love  for  that  length  of  wood.  I  sprung  it  affectionately  over 
my  knee,  I  rubbed  it  up  and  down  with  my  hand,  and  then  I  set 
it  in  the  corner  behind  the  fireplace. 

"After  all,"  I  said,  for  I  had  really  been  disturbed  by  Harriet's 
remark — "after  all,  power  over  one  thing  gives  us  power  over 
everything.  When  you  mend  socks  prospectively — into  futurity 
— Harriet,  that  is  an  evidence  of  true  greatness." 

"Sometimes  I  think  it  doesn't  pay,"  remarked  Harriet,  though 
she  was  plainly  pleased. 

"Pretty  good  socks,"  I  said,  "can  be  bought  for  fifteen  cents 
a  pair." 


40  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Harriet  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  but  I  was  as  sober  as  the 
face  of  nature. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  evenings  I  let  the  axe-helve  stand 
alone  in  the  corner.  I  hardly  looked  at  it,  though  once  in  a  while, 
when  occupied  with  some  other  work,  I  would  remember,  or 
rather  half  remember,  that  I  had  a  pleasure  in  store  for  the 
evening.  The  very  thought  of  sharp  tools  and  something  to 
make  with  them  acts  upon  the  imagination  with  peculiar  zest. 
So  we  love  to  employ  the  keen  edge  of  the  mind  upon  a  knotty 
and  difficult  subject. 

One  evening  the  Scotch  preacher  came  in.  We  love  him  very 
much,  though  he  sometimes  makes  us  laugh — perhaps,  in  part, 
because  he  makes  us  laugh.  Externally  he  is  a  sort  of  human 
cocoanut,  rough,  brown,  shaggy,  but  within  he  has  the  true  milk 
of  human  kindness.  Some  of  his  qualities  touch  greatness.  His 
youth  was  spent  in  stony  places  where  strong  winds  blew;  the 
trees  where  he  grew  bore  thorns;  the  soil  where  he  dug  was  full 
of  roots.  But  the  crop  was  human  love.  He  possesses  that  qual- 
ity, unusual  in  one  bred  exclusively  in  the  country,  of  magnanim- 
ity toward  the  unlike.  In  the  country  we  are  tempted  to  throw 
stones  at  strange  hats!  But  to  the  Scotch  preacher  every  man  in 
one  way  seems  transparent  to  the  soul.  He  sees  the  man  him- 
self, not  his  professions  any  more  than  his  clothes.  And  I  never 
knew  anyone  who  had  such  an  abiding  disbeUef  in  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  human  soul.  Weakness  he  sees  and  comforts; 
wickedness  he  cannot  see. 

When  he  came  in  I  was  busy  whittling  my  axe-helve,  it  being 
my  pleasure  at  that  moment  to  make  long,  thin,  curly  shavings 
so  light  that  many  of  them  were  caught  on  the  hearth  and 
bowled  by  the  draught  straight  to  fiery  destruction. 

There  is  a  noisy  zest  about  the  Scotch  preacher:  he  comes  in 
"stomping"  as  we  say,  he  must  clear  his  throat,  he  must  strike 
his  hands  together;  he  even  seems  noisy  when  he  unwinds  the 
thick  red  tippet  which  he  wears  wound  many  times  around  his 
neck.  It  takes  him  a  long  time  to  unwind  it,  and  he  accomplishes 
the  task  with  many  slow  gyrations  of  his  enormous  rough  head. 
When  he  sits  down  he  takes  merely  the  edge  of  the  chair, 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  41 

spreads  his  stout  legs  apart,  sits  as  straight  as  a  post,  and  blows 
his  nose  with  a  noise  like  the  falling  of  a  tree. 

His  interest  in  everything  is  prodigious.  When  he  saw  what  I 
was  doing  he  launched  at  once  upon  an  account  of  the  methods 
of  axe-helving,  ancient  and  modern,  with  true  incidents  of  his 
childhood. 

"Man,"  he  exclaimed,  "you've  clean  forgotten  one  of  the 
preenciple  refinements  of  the  art.  When  you  chop,  which  hand 
do  you  hold  down?" 

At  the  moment,  I  couldn't  have  told  to  save  my  life,  so  we 
both  got  up  on  our  feet  and  tried. 

"It's  the  right  hand  down,"  I  decided;  "that's  natural  to 
me." 

"You're  a  normal  right-handed  chopper,  then,"  said  the  Scotch 
preacher,  "as  I  was  thinking.  Now  let  me  instruct  you  in  the 
art.  Being  right-handed,  your  helve  must  bow  out — so.  No  first- 
class  chopper  uses  a  straight  handle." 

He  fell  to  explaining,  with  gusto,  the  mysteries  of  the  bowed 
handle,  and  as  I  listened  I  felt  a  new  and  peculiar  interest  in  my 
task.  This  was  a  final  perfection  to  be  accomplished,  the  finality 
of  technique! 

So  we  sat  with  our  heads  together  talking  helves  and  axes, 
axes  with  single  blades  and  axes  with  double  blades,  and  hand 
axes  and  great  choppers'  axes,  and  the  science  of  felling  trees, 
with  the  true  philosophy  of  the  last  chip,  and  arguments  as  to 
the  best  procedure  when  a  log  begins  to  "pinch" — until  a  listener 
would  have  thought  that  the  art  of  the  chopper  included  the 
whole  philosophy  of  existence — as  indeed  it  does,  if  you  look  at 
it  in  that  way.  Finally  I  rushed  out  and  brought  in  my  old  axe- 
handle,  and  we  set  upon  it  like  true  artists,  with  critical  proscrip- 
tion for  being  a  trivial  product  of  machinery. 

"Man,"  exclaimed  the  preacher,  "it  has  no  character.  Now 
your  helve  here,  being  the  vision  of  your  brain  and  work  of 
your  hands,  will  interpret  the  thought  of  your  heart." 

Before  the  Scotch  preacher  had  finished  his  disquisition  upon 
the  art  of  helve-making  and  its  relations  with  all  other  arts,  I  felt 
like  Peary  discovering  the  Pole. 


42  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

In  the  midst  o£  the  discourse,  while  I  was  soaring  high,  the 
Scotch  preacher  suddenly  stopped,  sat  up,  and  struck  his  knee 
with  a  tremendous  resounding  smack. 

"Spoons!"  he  exclaimed. 

Harriet  and  I  stopped  and  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Spoons,"  repeated  Harriet. 

"Spoons,"  said  the  Scotch  preacher.  "I've  not  once  thought  of 
my  errand;  and  my  wife  told  me  to  come  straight  home.  I'm 
more  thoughtless  every  day!" 

Then  he  turned  to  Harriet: 

"I've  been  sent  to  borrow  some  spoons,"  he  said. 

"Spoons!"  exclaimed  Harriet.  * 

"Spoons,"  answered  the  Scotch  preacher.  "We've  invited 
friends  for  dinner  to-morrow,  and  we  must  have  spoons." 

"But  why — how — I  thought "  began  Harriet,  still  in  as- 
tonishment. 

The  Scotch  preacher  squared  around  toward  her  and  cleared 
her  throat. 

"It's  the  baptisms,"  he  said :  "when  a  baby  is  brought  for  bap- 
tism, of  course  it  must  have  a  baptismal  gift.  What  is  the  best 
gift  for  a  baby?  A  spoon.  So  we  present  it  with  a  spoon.  To-day 
we  discovered  we  had  only  three  spoons  left,  and  company 
coming.  Man,  'tis  a  proleefic  neighbourhood." 

He  heaved  a  great  sigh. 

Harriet  rushed  out  and  made  up  a  package.  When  she  came 
in  I  thought  it  seemed  suspiciously  large  for  spoons,  but  the 
Scotch  preacher  having  again  launched  into  the  lore  of  the 
chopper,  took  it  without  at  first  perceiving  anything  strange. 
Five  minutes  after  we  had  closed  the  door  upon  him  he  sud- 
denly returned  holding  up  the  package. 

"This  is  an  uncommonly  heavy  package,"  he  remarked;  "did 
I  say  table-spoons?" 

"Go  on!"  commanded  Harriet;  "your  wife  will  understand." 

"All  right— good-bye  again,"  and  his  sturdy  figure  soon  dis- 
appeared in  the  dark. 

"The  impractical  man!"  exclaimed  Harriet.  "People  impose 
on  him." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 


43 


'Let  my  axe  fall 


"What  was  in  that  package,  Harriet?" 
"Oh,  I  put  in  a  few  jars  of  jelly  and  a  cake  of  honey." 
After  a  moment  Harriet  looked  up  from  her  work. 
"Do  you  know  the  greatest  sorrow  of  the  Scotch  preacher  and 
his  wife?" 
"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 
"They  have  no  chick  nor  child  of  their  own,"  said  Harriet. 


It  is  prodigious,  the  amount  of  work  required  to  make  a  good 
axe-helve — I  mean  to  make  it  according  to  one's  standard.  I  had 


44  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

times  of  humorous  discouragement  and  times  of  high  elation 
when  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  not  work  fast  enough.  Weeks 
passed  when  I  did  not  touch  the  helve  but  left  it  standing 
quietly  in  the  corner.  Once  or  twice  I  took  it  out  and  walked 
about  with  it  as  a  sort  of  cane,  much  to  the  secret  amusement, 
I  think,  of  Harriet.  At  times  Harriet  takes  a  really  wicked  de- 
light in  her  superiority. 

Early  one  morning  in  March  the  dawn  came  with  a  roaring 
wind,  sleety  snow  drove  down  over  the  hill,  the  house  creaked 
and  complained  in  every  clapboard.  A  blind  of  one  of  the  upper 
windows,  wrenched  loose  from  its  fastenings,  was  driven  shut 
with  such  force  that  it  broke  a  window  pane.  When  I  rushed 
up  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the  clatter  and  to  repair  the 
damage,  I  found  the  floor  covered  with  peculiar  long  fragments 
of  glass — the  pane  having  been  broken  inward  from  the  centre. 

"Just  what  I  have  wanted,"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  selected  a  few  of  the  best  pieces  and  so  eager  was  I  to  try 
them  that  I  got  out  my  axe-helve  before  breakfast  and  sat 
scratching  away  when  Harriet  came  down. 

Nothing  equals  a  bit  of  broken  glass  for  putting  on  the  final 
perfect  touch  to  a  work  of  art  like  an  axe-helve.  Nothing  will  so 
beautifully  and  delicately  trim  out  the  curves  of  the  throat  or 
give  a  smoother  turn  to  the  waist.  So  with  care  and  an  indescrib- 
able affection,  I  added  the  final  touches,  trimming  the  helve 
until  it  exactly  fitted  my  hand.  Often  and  often  I  tried  it  in 
pantomime,  swinging  nobly  in  the  centre  of  the  sitting-room 
(avoiding  the  lamp),  attentive  to  the  feel  of  my  hand  as  it  ran 
along  the  helve.  I  rubbed  it  down  with  fine  sandpaper  until  it 
fairly  shone  with  whiteness.  Then  I  borrowed  a  red  flannel  cloth 
of  Harriet  and  having  added  a  few  drops — not  too  much — of 
boiled  oil,  I  rubbed  the  helve  for  all  I  was  worth.  This  I  con- 
tinued for  upward  of  an  hour.  At  that  time  the  axe-helve  had 
taken  on  a  yellowish  shade,  very  clear  and  beautiful. 

I  do  not  think  I  could  have  been  prouder  if  I  had  carved  a 
statue  or  built  a  parthenon.  I  was  consumed  with  vanity;  but  I 
set  the  new  helve  in  the  corner  with  the  appearance  of  uttei 
unconcern. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  45 

"There,"  I  remarked,  "it's  finished." 

I  watched  Harriet  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye :  she  made  as  if 
to  speak  and  then  held  silent. 

That  evening  friend  Horace  came  in.  I  was  glad  to  see  him. 
Horace  is  or  was  a  famous  chopper.  I  placed  him  at  the  fire- 
place where  his  eye,  sooner  or  later,  must  fall  upon  my  axe-helve. 
Oh,  I  worked  out  my  designs !  Presently  he  saw  the  helve,  picked 
it  up  at  once  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hands.  I  had  a  suffocating, 
not  unhumorous,  sense  of  self-consciousness.  I  know  how  a  poet 
must  feel  at  hearing  his  first  poem  read  aloud  by  some  other 
person  who  does  not  know  its  authorship.  I  suffer  and  thrill 
with  the  novelist  who  sees  a  stranger  purchase  his  book  in  a 
book-shop.  I  felt  as  though  I  stood  that  moment  before  the 
Great  Judge. 

Horace  "hefted"  it  and  balanced  it,  and  squinted  along  it; 
he  rubbed  it  with  his  thumb,  he  rested  one  end  of  it  on  the  floor 
and  sprung  it  roughly. 

"David,"  he  said  severely,  "where  did  you  git  this  ? " 

Once  when  I  was  a  boy  I  came  home  with  my  hair  wet.  My 
father  asked : 

"David,  have  you  been  swimming?" 

I  had  exactly  the  same  feeling  when  Horace  asked  his  ques- 
lion.  Now  I  am,  generally  speaking,  a  truthful  man.  I  have  writ- 
ten a  good  deal  about  the  immorality,  the  unwisdom,  the  short- 
sightedness, the  sinful  wastefulness  of  a  lie.  But  at  that  moment, 
if  Harriet  had  not  been  present — and  that  illustrates  one  of  the 
purposes  of  society,  to  bolster  up  a  man's  morals — I  should  have 
evolved  as  large  and  perfect  a  prevarication  as  it  lay  within  me 
to  do — cheerfully.  But  I  felt  Harriet's  moral  eye  upon  me :  I  was 
a  coward  as  well  as  a  sinner.  I  faltered  -so  long  that  Horace 
finally  looked  around  at  me. 

Horace  has  no  poetry  in  his  soul,  neither  does  he  understand 
the  philosophy  of  imperfection  nor  the  art  of  irregularity. 

It  is  a  tender  shoot,  easily  blasted  by  cold  winds,  the  creative 
instinct:  but  persistent.  It  has  many  adventitious  buds.  A  late 


46  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

frost  destroying  the  freshness  of  its  early  verdure,  may  be  the 
means  of  a  richer  growth  in  later  and  more  favourable  days. 

For  a  week  I  left  my  helve  standing  there  in  the  corner.  I  did 
not  even  look  at  it.  I  was  slain.  I  even  thought  of  getting  up  in 
the  night  and  putting  the  helve  on  the  coals — secretly.  Then, 
suddenly,  one  morning,  I  took  it  up  not  at  all  tenderly,  indeed 
with  a  humorous  appreciation  of  my  own  absurdities,  and  car- 
ried it  out  into  the  yard.  An  axe-helve  is  not  a  mere  ornament 
but  a  thing  of  sober  purpose.  The  test,  after  all,  of  axe-helves 
is  not  sublime  perfection,  but  service.  We  may  easily  find  flaws 
in  the  verse  of  the  master — how  far  the  rhythm  fails  of  the  final 
perfect  music,  how  often  uncertain  the  rhyme— but  it  bears 
within  it,  hidden  yet  evident,  that  certain  incalculable  fire  which 
kindles  and  will  continue  to  kindle  the  souls  of  men.  The  final 
test  is  not  the  perfection  of  precedent,  not  regularity,  but  life, 
spirit. 

It  was  one  of  those  perfect,  sunny,  calm  mornings  that  some- 
times come  in  early  April:  the  zest  of  winter  yet  in  the  air,  but 
a  promise  of  summer. 

I  built  a  fire  of  oak  chips  in  the  middle  of  the  yard,  between 
two  flat  stones.  I  brought  out  my  old  axe,  and  when  the  fire  had 
burned  down  somewhat,  leaving  a  foundation  of  hot  coals,  I 
thrust  the  eye  of  the  axe  into  the  fire.  The  blade  rested  on  one  of 
the  flat  stones,  and  I  kept  it  covered  with  wet  rags  in  order  that 
it  might  not  heat  sufiiciently  to  destroy  the  temper  of  the  steel. 
Harriet's  old  gray  hen,  a  garrulous  fowl,  came  and  stood  on  one 
leg  and  looked  at  me  first  with  one  eye  and  then  with  the  other. 
She  asked  innumerable  impertinent  questions  and  was  generally 
disagreeable. 

"I  am  sorry,  madam,"  I  said  finally,  "but  I  have  grown  ada- 
mant to  criticism.  I  have  done  my  work  as  well  as  it  lies  in  me 
to  do  it.  It  is  the  part  of  sanity  to  throw  it  aside  without  com- 
punction. A  work  must  prove  itself.  Shoo!" 

I  said  this  with  such  conclusiveness  and  vigour  that  the  critical 
old  hen  departed  hastily  with  ruffled  feathers. 

So  I  sat  there  in  the  glorious  perfection  of  the  forenoon,  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  47 

great  day  open  around  me,  a  few  small  clouds  abroad  in  the 
highest  sky,  and  all  the  earth  radiant  with  sunshine.  The  last 
snow  of  winter  was  gone,  the  sap  ran  in  the  trees,  the  cows  fed 
further  afield. 

When  the  eye  of  the  axe  was  sufficiently  expanded  by  the  heat 
I  drew  it  quickly  from  the  fire  and  drove  home  the  helve  which 
I  had  already  whittled  down  to  the  exact  size.  I  had  a  hickory 
wedge  prepared,  and  it  was  the  work  of  ten  seconds  to  drive  it 
into  the  cleft  at  the  lower  end  of  the  helve  until  the  eye  of  the 
axe  was  completely  and  perfectly  filled.  Upon  cooling  the  steel 
shrunk  upon  the  wood,  clasping  it  with  such  firmness  that 
nothing  short  of  fire  could  ever  dislodge  it.  Then,  carefully, 
with  knife  and  sandpaper  I  pohshed  off  the  wood  around  the 
steel  of  the  axe  until  I  had  made  as  good  a  job  of  it  as  lay  within 
my  power. 

So  I  carried  the  axe  to  my  log-pile.  I  swung  it  above  my  head 
and  the  feel  of  it  was  good  in  my  hands.  The  blade  struck  deep 
into  the  oak  wood.  And  I  said  to  myself  with  satisfaction: 

"It  serves  the  purpose." 


t^W    •( 


VI 
THE  MARSH  DITCH 


"If  the  day  and  the  night  are  such  that  you  greet  them 
with  joy  and  life  emits  a  fragrance  li\e  -flowers  and  sweet- 
smelling  herbs — is  more  elastic,  more  starry,  more  immortal 
— that  is  your  Success," 

In  all  the  days  of  my  life  I  have  never  been  so  well  content  as 
I  am  this  spring.  Last  summer  I  thought  I  was  happy,  the  fall 
gave  me  a  finality  of  satisfaction,  the  winter  imparted  perspec- 
tive, but  spring  conveys  a  wholly  new  sense  of  life,  a  quickening 
the  like  of  which  I  never  before  experienced.  It  seems  to  me  that 
everything  in  the  world  is  more  interesting,  more  vital,  more 
significant.  I  feel  like  "waving  aside  all  roofs,"  in  the  way  of 
Le  Sage's  Asmodeus. 

I  even  cease  to  fear  Mrs.  Horace,  who  is  quite  the  most  for- 
midable person  in  this  neighbourhood.  She  is  so  avaricious  in 
the  saving  of  souls — and  so  covetous  of  mine,  which  I  wish 
especially  to  retain.  When  I  see  her  coming  across  the  hill  I  feel 
Uke  running  and  hiding,  and  if  I  were  as  bold  as  a  boy,  I  should 
do  it,  but  being  a  grown-up  coward  I  remain  and  dissemble. 

48 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  49 

She  came  over  this  morning.  When  I  beheld  her  afar  ofiF,  I 
drew  a  long  breath :  "One  thousand,"  I  quoted  to  myself,  "shall 
flee  at  the  rebuke  of  one." 

In  calmness  I  waited.  She  came  with  colours  flying  and  hurled 
her  biblical  lance.  When  I  withstood  the  shock  with  unexpected 
jauntiness,  for  I  usually  fall  dead  at  once,  she  looked  at  me  with 
severity  and  said: 

"Mr.  Grayson,  you  are  a  materialist." 

"You  have  shot  me  with  a  name,"  I  replied.  "I  am  unhurt." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  slay  me  on  a  day  like  this.  On  a  day 
like  this  I  am  immortal. 

It  comes  to  me  as  the  wonder  of  wonders,  these  spring  days, 
how  surely  everything,  spiritual  as  well  as  material,  proceeds 
out  of  the  earth.  I  have  times  of  sheer  Paganism  when  I  could 
bow  and  touch  my  face  to  the  warm  bare  soil.  We  are  so  often 
ashamed  of  the  Earth — the  soil  of  it,  the  sweat  of  it,  the  good 
common  coarseness  of  it.  To  us  in  our  fine  raiment  and  soft 
^manners,  it  seems  indelicate.  Instead  of  seeking  that  associa- 
tion with  the  earth  which  is  the  renewal  of  life,  we  devise  our- 
selves distant  palaces  and  seek  strange  pleasures.  How  often 
and  sadly  we  repeat  the  life  story  of  the  yellow  dodder  of  the 
moist  lanes  of  my  lower  farm.  It  springs  up  fresh  and  clean  from 
the  earth  itself,  and  spreads  its  clinging  viny  stems  over  the  hos- 
pitable wild  balsam  and  golden  rod.  In  a  week's  time,  having 
reached  the  warm  sunshine  of  the  upper  air,  it  forgets  its  humble 
beginnings.  Its  roots  wither  swiftly  and  die  out,  but  the  sickly 
yellow  stems  continue  to  flourish  and  spread,  drawing  their 
nourishment  not  from  the  soil  itself,  but  by  strangling  and  suck- 
ing the  life  juices  of  the  hosts  on  which  it  feeds.  I  have  seen 
whole  byways  covered  thus  with  yellow  dodder — rootless,  leaf- 
less, parasitic — reaching  up  to  the  sunlight,  quite  cutting  off  and 
smothering  the  plants  which  gave  it  life.  A  week  or  two  it 
flourishes  and  then  most  of  it  perishes  miserably.  So  many  of  us 
come  to  be  like  that:  so  much  of  our  civilization  is  like  that. 
Men  and  women  there  are — the  pity  of  it — who,  eating  plenti- 
fully, have  never  themselves  taken  a  mouthful  from  the  earth. 
They  have  never  known  a  moment's  real  life  of  their  own. 


50  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Lying  up  to  the  sun  in  warmth  and  comfort— but  leafless — the) 
do  not  think  of  the  hosts  under  them,  smothered,  strangled, 
starved.  They  take  nothing  at  first  hand.  They  experience  de- 
scribed emotion,  and  think  prepared  thoughts.  They  live  not  in 
life,  but  in  printed  reports  of  Hfe.  They  gather  the  odour  of 
odours,  not  the  odour  itself:  they  do  not  hear,  they  overhear. 
A  poor,  sad,  second-rate  existence! 

Bring  out  your  social  remedies!  They  will  fail,  they  will  fail, 
every  one,  until  each  man  has  his  feet  somewhere  upon  the  soil! 

My  wild  plum  trees  grow  in  the  coarse  earth,  among  excre- 
mentitious  mould,  a  physical  life  which  finally  blossoms  and 
exhales  its  perfect  odour :  which  ultimately  bears  the  seed  of  its 
immortality. 

Human  happiness  is  the  true  odour  of  growth,  the  sweet 
exhalation  of  work:  and  the  seed  of  human  immortality  is  borne 
secretly  within  the  coarse  and  mortal  husk.  So  many  of  us  crave 
the  odour  without  cultivating  the  earthly  growth  from  which  it 
proceeds:  so  many,  wasting  mortality,  expect  immortality! 

"Why,"  asks  Charles  Baxter,  "do  you  always  put  the  end 

of  your  stories  first?" 

"You  may  be  thankful,"  I  replied,  "that  I  do  not  make  my 
remarks  all  endings.  Endings  are  so  much  more  interesting  than 
beginnings." 

Without  looking  up  from  the  buggy  he  was  mending,  Charles 
Baxter  intimated  that  my  way  had  at  least  one  advantage:  one 
always  knew,  he  said,  that  I  really  had  an  end  in  view — and  hope 
deferred,  he  said 

How  surely,  soundly,  deeply,  the  physical  underlies  the 

spiritual.  This  morning  I  was  up  and  out  at  half-past  four,  as 
perfect  a  morning  as  I  ever  saw:  mists  yet  huddled  in  the  low 
spots,  the  sun  coming  up  over  the  hill,  and  all  the  earth  fresh 
with  moisture,  sweet  with  good  odours,  and  musical  with  early 
bird-notes. 

It  is  the  time  of  the  spring  just  after  the  last  seeding  and  be- 
fore the  early  haying:  a  catch-breath  in  the  farmer's  year.  I  have 
been  utilising  it  in  digging  a  drainage  ditch  at  the  lower  end  of 
my  farm.  A  spot  of  marsh  grass  and  blue  flags  occupies  nearly 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  51 

half  an  acre  of  good  land  and  I  have  been  planning  ever  since  I 
bought  the  place  to  open  a  drain  from  its  lower  edge  to  the 
creek,  supplementing  it  in  the  field  above,  if  necessary,  with 
submerged  tiling.  I  surveyed  it  carefully  several  weeks  ago  and 
drew  plans  and  contours  of  the  work  as  though  it  were  an  inter- 
oceanic  canal.  I  find  it  a  real  delight  to  work  out  in  the  earth 
itself  the  details  of  the  drawing. 

This  morning,  after  hastening  with  the  chores,  I  took  my  bag 
and  my  spade  on  my  shoulder  and  set  off  (in  rubber  boots)  for 
the  ditch.  My  way  lay  along  the  margin  of  my  cornfield  in  the 
deep  grass.  On  my  right  as  I  walked  was  the  old  rail  fence  full 
of  thrifty  young  hickory  and  cherry  trees  with  here  and  there  a 
clump  of  blackberry  bushes.  The  trees  beyond  the  fence  cut  off 
the  sunrise  so  that  I  walked  in  the  cool  broad  shadows.  On  my 
left  stretched  the  cornfield  of  my  planting,  the  young  corn  well 
up,  very  attractive  and  hopeful,  my  really  frightful  scarecrow 
standing  guard  on  the  knoll,  a  wisp  of  straw  sticking  up  through 
a  hole  in  his  hat  and  his  crooked  thumbs  turned  down — "No 
mercy." 

"Surely  no  corn  ever  before  grew  like  this,"  I  said  to  myself. 
"To-morrow  I  must  begin  cultivating  again." 

So  I  looked  up  and  about  me — not  to  miss  anything  of  the 
morning — and  I  drew  in  a  good  big  breath  and  I  thought  the 
world  had  never  been  so  open  to  my  senses. 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  the  sense  of  smell  is  so  commonly 
under-regarded.  To  me  it  is  the  source  of  some  of  my  greatest 
pleasures.  No  one  of  the  senses  is  more  often  allied  with 
robustity  of  physical  health.  A  man  who  smells  acutely  may  be 
set  down  as  enjoying  that  which  is  normal,  plain,  wholesome. 
He  does  not  require  seasoning:  the  ordinary  earth  is  good 
enough  for  him.  He  is  likely  to  be  sane — which  means  sound, 
healthy — in  his  outlook  upon  life. 

Of  all  hours  of  the  day  there  is  none  like  the  early  morning 
for  downright  good  odours — the  morning  before  eating.  Fresh 
from  sleep  and  unclogged  with  food  a  man's  senses  cut  like 
knives.  The  whole  world  comes  in  upon  him.  A  still  morning  is 
best,  for  the  mists  and  the  moisture  seem  to  retain  the  odours 


52  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

which  they  have  distilled  through  the  night.  Upon  a  breezy 
morning  one  is  Ukely  to  get  a  single  predominant  odour  as  of 
clover  when  the  wind  blows  across  a  hay  field  or  of  apple  blos- 
soms when  the  wind  comes  through  the  orchard,  but  upon  a 
perfectly  still  morning,  it  is  wonderful  how  the  odours  arrange 
themselves  in  upright  strata,  so  that  one  walking  passes  through 
them  as  from  room  to  room  in  a  marvellous  temple  of  fragrance. 
(I  should  have  said,  I  think,  if  I  had  not  been  on  my  way  to  dig 
a  ditch,  that  it  was  Hke  turning  the  leaves  of  some  deUcate 
volume  of  lyrics!) 

So  it  was  this  morning.  As  I  walked  along  the  margin  of  my 
field  I  was  conscious,  at  first,  coming  within  the  shadows  of  the 
wood,  of  the  cool,  heavy  aroma  which  one  associates  with  the 
night:  as  of  moist  woods  and  earth  mould.  The  penetrating 
scent  of  the  night  remains  long  after  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
it  have  disappeared.  In  sunny  spots  I  had  the  fragrance  of  the 
open  cornfield,  the  aromatic  breath  of  the  brown  earth,  giving 
curiously  the  sense  of  fecundity — a  warm,  generous  odour  of 
daylight  and  sunshine.  Down  the  field,  toward  the  corner,  cut- 
ting in  sharply,  as  though  a  door  opened  (or  a  page  turned  to 
another  lyric),  came  the  cloying,  sweet  fragrance  of  wild  crab- 
apple  blossoms,  almost  tropical  in  their  richness,  and  below 
that,  as  I  came  to  my  work,  the  thin  acrid  smell  of  the  marsh, 
the  place  of  the  rushes  and  the  flags  and  the  frogs. 

How  few  of  us  really  use  our  senses!  I  mean  give  ourselves 
fully  at  any  time  to  the  occupation  of  the  senses.  We  do  not 
expect  to  understand  a  treatise  on  Economics  without  applying 
our  minds  to  it,  nor  can  we  really  smell  or  hear  or  see  or  feel 
without  every  faculty  alert.  Through  sheer  indolence  we  miss 
half  the  joy  of  the  world! 

Often  as  I  work  I  stop  to  see :  really  see :  see  everything,  or  to 
listen,  and  it  is  the  wonder  of  wonders,  how  much  there  is  in 
this  old  world  which  we  never  dreamed  of,  how  many  beautiful, 
curious,  interesting  sights  and  sounds  there  are  which  ordinarily 
make  no  impression  upon  our  clogged,  overfed  and  preoccupied 
minds.  I  have  also  had  the  feehng— it  may  be  unscientific  but  it 
is  comforting— that  any  man  might  see  Uke  an  Indian  or  smell 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  53 

like  a  hound  if  he  gave  to  the  senses  the  brains  which  the  Indian 
and  the  hound  apply  to  them.  And  I'm  pretty  sure  about  the 
Indian!  It  is  marvellous  what  a  man  can  do  when  he  puts  his 
entire  mind  upon  one  faculty  and  bears  down  hard. 

So  I  walked  this  morning,  not  hearing  nor  seeing,  but  smell- 
ing. Without  desiring  to  stir  up  strife  among  the  peaceful  senses, 
there  is  this  further  marvel  of  the  sense  of  smell.  No  other 
possesses  such  an  after-call.  Sight  preserves  pictures:  the  com- 
plete view  of  the  aspect  of  objects,  but  it  is  photographic  and 
external.  Hearing  deals  in  echoes,  but  the  sense  of  smell,  while 
saving  no  vision  of  a  place  or  a  person,  will  re-create  in  a  way 
almost  miraculous  the  inner  emotion  of  a  particular  time  or 
place.  I  know  of  nothing  that  will  so  "create  an  appetite  under 
the  ribs  of  death." 

Only  a  short  time  ago  I  passed  an  open  doorway  in  the  town. 
I  was  busy  with  errands,  my  mind  fully  engaged,  but  suddenly  I 
caught  an  odour  from  somewhere  within  the  building  I  was 
passing.  I  stopped!  It  was  as  if  in  that  moment  I  lost  twenty 
years  of  my  life :  I  was  a  boy  again,  living  and  feeling  a  particu- 
lar instant  at  the  time  of  my  father's  death.  Every  emotion  of 
that  occasion,  not  recalled  in  years,  returned  to  me  sharply  and 
clearly  as  though  I  experienced  it  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a 
peculiar  emotion:  the  first  time  I  had  ever  felt  the  oppression 
of  space — can  I  describe  it? — the  utter  bigness  of  the  world  and 
the  aloofness  of  myself,  a  little  boy,  within  it — now  that  my 
father  was  gone.  It  was  not  at  that  moment  sorrow,  nor  re- 
morse, nor  love:  it  was  an  inexpressible  cold  terror — that  any- 
where I  might  go  in  the  world,  I  should  still  be  alone! 

And  there  I  stood,  a  man  grown,  shaking  in  the  sunshine  with 
that  old  boyish  emotion  brought  back  to  me  by  an  odour!  Often 
and  often  have  I  known  this  strange  rekindling  of  dead  fires. 
And  I  have  thought  how,  if  our  senses  were  really  perfect,  we 
might  lose  nothing,  out  of  our  lives :  neither  sights,  nor  sounds, 
nor  emotions:  a  sort  of  mortal  immortality.  Was  not  Shake- 
speare great  because  he  lost  less  of  the  savings  of  his  senses 
than  other  men?  What  a  wonderful  seer,  hearer,  smeller,  taster, 
feeler,  he  must  have  been — and  how,  all  the  time,  his  mind  must 


54  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

have  played  upon  the  gatherings  of  his  senses!  All  scenes,  all 
men,  the  very  turn  of  a  head,  the  exact  sound  of  a  voice,  the 
taste  of  food,  the  feel  of  the  w^orld — all  the  emotions  of  his  life 
must  he  have  had  there  before  him  as  he  wrote,  his  great  mind 
playing  upon  them,  reconstructing,  re-creating  and  putting  them 
down  hot  upon  his  pages.  There  is  nothing  strange  about  great 
men;  they  are  like  us,  only  deeper,  higher,  broader:  they  think 
as  we  do,  but  with  more  intensity:  they  suffer  as  we  do,  more 
keenly:  they  love  as  we  do,  more  tenderly. 

I  may  be  over-glorifying  the  sense  of  smell,  but  it  is  only 
because  I  walked  this  morning  in  a  world  of  odours.  The  great- 
est of  the  senses,  of  course,  is  not  smell  or  hearing,  but  sight. 
What  would  not  any  man  exchange  for  that:  for  the  faces  one 
loves,  for  the  scenes  one  holds  most  dear,  for  all  that  is  beautiful 
and  changeable  and  beyond  description?  The  Scotch  Preacher 
says  that  the  saddest  lines  in  all  Uterature  are  those  of  Milton, 
writing  of  his  blindness. 

"Seasons  return;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom  or  Summer's  rose, 
Or  floc\s,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine." 

1  have  wandered  a  long  way  from  ditch-digging,  but  not 

wholly  without  intention.  Sooner  or  later  I  try  to  get  back  into 
the  main  road.  I  throw  down  my  spade  in  the  wet  trampled, 
grass  at  the  edge  of  the  ditch.  I  take  off  my  coat  and  hang  it 
over  a  limb  of  the  little  hawthorn  tree.  I  put  my  bag  near  it. 
I  roll  up  the  sleeves  of  my  flannel  shirt:  I  give  my  hat  a  twirl: 
I'm  ready  for  work. 

The  senses  are  the  tools  by  which  we  lay  hold  upon  the 

world;  they  are  the  implements  of  consciousness  and  growth. 
So  long  as  they  are  used  upon  the  good  earth— used  to  whole- 
some weariness — they  remain  healthy,  they  yield  enjoyment, 
they  nourish  growth;  but  let  them  once  be  removed  from  their 
natural  employment  and  they  turn  and  feed  upon  themselves, 
they  seek  the  stimulation  of  luxury,  they  wallow  in  their  own 
corruption,  and  finally,  worn  out,  perish  from  off  the  earth 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  55 

which  they  have  not  appreciated.  Vice  is  ever  the  senses  gone 
astray. 

So  I  dug.  There  is  something  fine  in  hard  physical  labour, 

straight  ahead:  no  brain  used,  just  muscles.  I  stood  ankle-deep 
in  the  cool  water:  every  spadeful  came  out  with  a  smack,  and  as 
I  turned  it  over  at  the  edge  of  the  ditch  small  turgid  rivulets 
coursed  back  again.  I  did  not  think  of  anything  in  particular. 
I  dug.  A  peculiar  joy  attends  the  very  pull  of  the  muscles.  I  drove 
the  spade  home  with  one  foot,  then  I  bent  and  lifted  and  turned 
with  a  sort  of  physical  satisfaction  difficult  to  describe.  At  first 


I  had  the  cool  of  the  morning,  but  by  seven  o'clock  the  day  was 
hot  enough!  I  opened  the  breast  of  my  shirt,  gave  my  sleeves 
another  roll,  and  went  at  it  again  for  half  an  hour,  until  I 
dripped  with  perspiration. 

"I  will  knock  oflF,"  I  said,  so  I  used  my  spade  as  a  ladder  and 
climbed  out  of  the  ditch.  Being  very  thirsty,  I  walked  down 
through  the  marshy  valley  to  the  clump  of  alders  which  grows 
along  the  creek.  I  followed  a  cow-path  through  the  thicket  and 
came  to  the  creek  side,  where  I  knelt  on  a  log  and  took  a  good 
long  drink.  Then  I  soused  my  head  in  the  cool  stream,  dashed 
the  water  upon  my  arms  and  came  up  dripping  and  gasping! 
Oh,  but  it  was  fine! 

So  I  came  back  to  the  hawthorn  tree,  where  I  sat  down  com- 
fortably and  stretched  my  legs.  There  is  a  poem  in  stretched 


56  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

legs — after  hard  digging— but  I  can't  write  it,  though  I  can  feel 
it!  I  got  my  bag  and  took  out  a  half  loaf  of  Harriet's  bread. 
Breaking  off  big  crude  pieces,  I  ate  it  there  in  the  shade.  How 
rarely  we  taste  the  real  taste  of  bread!  We  disguise  it  with 
butter,  we  toast  it,  we  eat  it  with  milk  or  fruit.  We  even  soak  it 
with  gravy  (here  in  the  country  where  we  aren't  at  all  polite — 
but  very  comfortable),  so  that  we  never  get  the  downright  de- 
licious taste  of  the  bread  itself.  I  was  hungry  this  morning  and  I 
ate  my  half  loaf  to  the  last  crumb — and  wanted  more.  Then 
I  lay  down  for  a  moment  in  the  shade  and  looked  up  into  the 
sky  through  the  thin  outer  branches  of  the  hawthorn.  A  turkey 
buzzard  was  lazily  circling  cloud-high  above  me :  a  frog  boomed 
intermittently  from  the  little  marsh,  and  there  were  bees  at 
work  in  the  blossoms. 

1  had  another  drink  at  the  creek  and  went  back  somewhat 

reluctantly,  I  confess,  to  the  work.  It  was  hot,  and  the  first  joy  of 
effort  had  worn  off.  But  the  ditch  was  to  be  dug  and  I  went  at 
it  again.  One  becomes  a  sort  of  machine — unthinking,  mechani- 
cal :  and  yet  intense  physical  work,  though  making  no  immediate 
impression  on  the  mind,  often  lingers  in  the  consciousness.  I 
find  that  sometimes  I  can  remember  and  enjoy  for  long  after- 
ward every  separate  step  in  a  task. 

It  is  curious,  hard  physical  labour!  One  actually  stops  think- 
ing. I  often  work  long  without  any  thought  whatever,  so  far  as 
I  know,  save  that  connected  with  the  monotonous  repetition  of 
the  labour  itself — down  with  the  spade,  out  with  it,  up  with  it, 
over  with  it — and  repeat.  And  yet  sometimes — mostly  in  the 
forenoon  when  I  am  not  at  all  tired— I  will  suddenly  have  a 
sense  as  of  the  world  opening  around  me — a  sense  of  its  beauty 
and  its  meanings— giving  me  a  peculiar  deep  happiness,  that  is 
near  complete  content 

Happiness,  I  have  discovered,  is  nearly  always  a  rebound  from 
hard  work.  It  is  one  of  the  follies  of  men  to  imagine  that  they 
can  enjoy  mere  thought,  or  emotion,  or  sentiment!  As  well  try 
to  eat  beauty!  For  happiness  must  be  tricked!  She  loves  to  see 
men  at  work.  She  loves  sweat,  weariness,  self-sacrifice.  She  will 
be  found  not  in  palaces  but  lurking  in  cornfields  and  factories 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  57 

and  hovering  over  littered  desks:  she  crowns  the  unconscious 
head  of  the  busy  child.  If  you  look  up  suddenly  from  hard  w^ork 
you  will  see  her,  but  if  you  look  too  long  she  fades  sorrov^uUy 
away. 

Down  toward  the  town  there  is  a  little  factory  for  barrel 

hoops  and  staves.  It  has  one  of  the  most  musical  whistles  I  ever 
heard  in  my  life.  It  toots  at  exactly  twelve  o'clock:  blessed 
sound!  The  last  half-hour  at  ditch-digging  is  a  hard,  slow  pull. 
I'm  warm  and  tired,  but  I  stick  down  to  it  and  wait  with  strain- 
ing ear  for  the  music.  At  the  very  first  note  of  that  whistle  I 
drop  my  spade.  I  will  even  empty  out  a  load  of  dirt  half  way  up 
rather  than  expend  another  ounce  of  energy;  and  I  spring  out 
of  the  ditch  and  start  for  home  with  a  single  desire  in  my  heart 
-MDr  possibly  lower  down.  And  Harriet,  standing  in  the  door- 
way, seems  to  me  a  sort  of  angel — a  culinary  angel! 

Talk  of  joy:  there  may  be  things  better  than  beef  stew  and 
baked  potatoes  and  homemade  bread — there  may  be 


VII 

AN  ARGUMENT 
WITH  A  MILLIONNAIRE 

'Let  the  mighty  and  great 
Roll  in  splendour  and  state, 
I  envy  them  not,  I  declare  it. 
I  eat  my  own  lamb, 
My  own  chic\en  and  ham, 
I  shear  my  own  sheep  and  wear  it, 

1  have  lawns,  I  have  bowers,      ♦ 

/  have  fruits,  I  have  flowers. 

The  lar\  is  my  morning  charmer; 

So  you  jolly  dogs  now. 

Here's  God  bless  the  plow — 

Long  life  and  content  to  the  farmer." 

— RHYME  ON  AN  OLD  PITCHER  OF  ENGLISH  POTTERY. 


I 


HAVE  BEEN  HEARING  o£  Johii  Starkweather  ever  since  I  came 
here.  He  is  a  most  important  personage  in  this  community.  He 
is  rich.  Horace  especially  loves  to  talk  about  him.  Give  Horace 
half  a  chance,  whether  the  subject  be  pigs  or  churches,  and  he 
will  break  in  somewhere  with  the  remark:  "As  I  was  saying  to 

58 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  59 

Mr.  Starkweather — "  or,  "Mr.  Starkweather  says  to  me — "  How 
we  love  to  shine  by  reflected  glory!  Even  Harriet  has  not  gone 
unscathed;  she,  too,  has  been  affected  by  the  bacillus  of  admira- 
tion. She  has  wanted  to  know  several  times  if  I  saw  John  Stark- 
weather drive  by :  "the  finest  span  of  horses  in  this  country,"  she 
says,  and  "did  you  see  his  daughter.?"  Much  other  information 
concerning  the  Starkweather  household,  culinary  and  otherwise, 
is  current  among  our  hills.  We  know  accurately  the  number  of 
Mr.  Starkweather's  bedrooms,  we  can  tell  how  much  coal  he 
uses  in  winter  and  how  many  tons  of  ice  in  summer,  and  upon 
such  important  premises  we  argue  his  riches. 

Several  times  I  have  passed  John  Starkweather's  home.  It  lies 
between  my  farm  and  the  town,  though  not  on  the  direct  road,' 
and  it  is  really  beautiful  with  the  groomed  and  guided  beauty 
possible  to  wealth.  A  stately  old  house  with  a  huge  end  chimney 
of  red  brick  stands  with  dignity  well  back  from  the  road;  round 
about  lie  pleasant  lawns  that  once  were  cornfields :  and  there  are 
drives  and  walks  and  exotic  shrubs.  At  first,  loving  my  own  hills 
so  well,  I  was  puzzled  to  understand  why  I  should  also  enjoy 
Starkweather's  groomed  surroundings.  But  it  came  to  me  that 
after  all,  much  as  we  may  love  wildness,  we  are  not  wild,  nor 
our  works.  What  more  artificial  than  a  house,  or  a  barn,  or  a 
fence?  And  the  greater  and  more  formal  the  house,  the  more 
formal  indeed  must  be  the  nearer  natural  environments.  Per- 
haps the  hand  of  man  might  well  have  been  less  evident  in 
developing  the  surroundings  of  the  Starkweather  home — ^for  art, 
dealing  with  nature,  is  so  often  too  accomplished! 

But  I  enjoy  the  Starkweather  place  and  as  I  look  in  from  the 
road,  I  sometimes  think  to  myself  with  satisfaction:  "Here  is 
this  rich  man  who  has  paid  his  thousands  to  make  the  beauty 
which  I  pass  and  take  for  nothing — and  having  taken,  leave  as 
much  behind."  And  I  wonder  sometimes  whether  he,  inside  his 
fences,  gets  more  joy  of  it  than  I,  who  walk  the  roads  outside. 
Anyway,  I  am  grateful  to  him  for  using  his  riches  so  much  to 
my  advantage. 

On  fine  mornings  John  Starkweather  sometimes  comes  out  in 
his  slippers,  bare-headed,  his  white  vest  gleaming  in  the  sun- 


60  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

shine,  and  walks  slowly  around  his  garden.  Charles  Baxter  says 
that  on  these  occasions  he  is  asking  his  gardener  the  names  of 
the  vegetables.  However  that  may  be,  he  has  seemed  to  our 
community  the  very  incarnation  of  contentment  and  prosperity 
— his  position  the  acme  of  desirabiHty. 

What  was  my  astonishment,  then,  the  other  morning  to  see 
John  Starkweather  coming  down  the  pasture  lane  through  my 
farm.  I  knew  him  afar  off,  though  I  had  never  met  him.  May  I 
express  the  inexpressible  when  I  say  he  had  a  rich  look;  he 
walked  rich,  there  was  richness  in  the  confident  crook  of  his 
elbow,  and  in  the  positive  twitch  of  the  stick  he  carried :  a  man 
accustomed  to  having  doors  opened  before  he  knocked.  I  stood 
there  a  moment  and  looked  up  the  hill  at  him,  and  I  felt  that 
profound  curiosity  which  every  one  of  us  feels  every  day  of  his 
life  to  know  something  of  the  inner  impulses  which  stir  his 
nearest  neighbour.  I  should  have  Hked  to  know  John  Stark- 
weather; but  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  have  thought  so  many 
times  how  surely  one  comes  finally  to  imitate  his  surroundings. 
A  farmer  grows  to  be  a  part  of  his  farm;  the  sawdust  on  his 
coat  is  not  the  most  distinctive  insignia  of  the  carpenter;  the 
poet  writes  his  truest  lines  upon  his  own  countenance.  People 
passing  in  my  road  take  me  to  be  a  part  of  this  natural  scene. 
I  suppose  I  seem  to  them  as  a  partridge  squatting  among  dry 
grass  and  leaves,  so  like  the  grass  and  leaves  as  to  be  invisible. 
We  all  come  to  be  marked  upon  by  nature  and  dismissed — how 
carelessly! — as  genera  or  species.  And  is  it  not  the  primal  strug- 
gle of  man  to  escape  classification,  to  form  new  differentiations  ? 

Sometimes — I  confess  it — when  I  see  one  passing  in  my  road, 
I  feel  like  hailing  him  and  saying: 

"Friend,  I  am  not  all  farmer.  I,  too,  am  a  person;  I  am  differ- 
ent and  curious.  I  am  full  of  red  blood,  I  Uke  people,  all  sorts  of 
people;  if  you  are  not  interested  in  me,  at  least  I  am  intensely 
interested  in  you.  Come  over  now  and  let's  talk!" 

So  we  are  all  of  us  calling  and  calling  across  the  incalculable 
gulfs  which  separate  us  even  from  our  nearest  friends! 

Once  or  twice  this  feeling  has  been  so  real  to  me  that  I've 
been  near  to  the  point  of  hailing  utter  strangers — only  to  be 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  61 

instantly  overcome  with  a  sense  of  the  humorous  absurdity  of 
such  an  enterprise.  So  I  laugh  it  ofJ  and  I  say  to  myself: 

"Steady  now:  the  man  is  going  to  town  to  sell  a  pig;  he  is 
coming  back  with  ten  pounds  of  sugar,  five  of  salt  pork,  a  can  of 
coffee  and  some  new  blades  for  his  mowing  machine.  He  hasn't 
time  for  talk" — and  so  I  come  down  with  a  bump  to  my  digging, 
or  hoeing,  or  chopping,  or  whatever  it  is. 

Here  I've  left  John  Starkweather  in  my  pasture  while  I 

remark  to  the  extent  of  a  page  or  two  that  I  didn't  expect  him 
to  see  me  when  he  went  by. 

I  assumed  that  he  was  out  for  a  walk,  perhaps  to  enliven  a 
worn  appetite  (do  you  know,  confidentially,  I've  had  some 
pleasure  in  times  past  in  reflecting  upon  the  jaded  appetites  of 
millionnaires!),  and  that  he  would  pass  out  by  my  lane  to  the 
country  road;  but  instead  of  that,  what  should  he  do  but  cHmb 
the  yard  fence  and  walk  over  toward  the  barn  where  I  was  at 
work. 

Perhaps  I  was  not  consumed  with  excitement:  here  was  fresh 
adventure! 

"A  farmer,"  I  said  to  myself  with  exultation,  "has  only  to  wait 
long  enough  and  all  the  world  comes  his  way." 

I  had  just  begun  to  grease  my  farm  wagon  and  was  experi- 
encing some  difficulty  in  lifting  and  steadying  the  heavy  rear 
axle  while  I  took  off  the  wheel.  I  kept  busily  at  work,  pretend- 
ing (such  is  the  perversity  of  the  human  mind)  that  I  did  not 
see  Mr.  Starkweather.  He  stood  for  a  moment  watching  me; 
then  he  said : 

"Good  morning,  sir." 

I  looked  up  and  said: 

"Oh,  good  morning!" 

"Nice  little  farm  you  have  here." 

"It's  enough  for  me,"  I  repHed.  I  did  not  especially  like  the 
"little."  One  is  human. 

Then  I  had  an  absurd  inspiration :  he  stood  there  so  trim  and 
iaunty  and  prosperous.  So  rich!  I  had  a  good  look  at  him.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  woollen  jacket  coat,  knee-trousers  and  leggins; 
on  his  head  he  wore  a  jaunty,  cocky  Httle  Scotch  cap;  a  man,  I 


62  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

should  judge,  about  fifty  years  old,  well-fed  and  hearty  in  ap- 
pearance, with  grayish  hair  and  a  good-humoured  eye.  I  acted 
on  my  inspiration : 

"You've  arrived,"  I  said,  "at  the  psychological  moment." 

"How's  that?" 

"Take  hold  here  and  help  me  lift  this  axle  and  steady  it.  I'm 
having  a  hard  time  of  it." 

The  look  of  astonishment  in  his  countenance  was  beautiful 
to  see. 

For  a  moment  failure  stared  me  in  the  face.  His  expression 
said  with  emphasis :  "Perhaps  you  don't  know  who  I  am."  But  I 
looked  at  him  with  the  greatest  good  feeling  and  my  expression 
said,  or  I  meant  it  to  say:  "To  be  sure  I  don't:  and  what  differ- 
ence does  it  make,  anyway!" 

"You  take  hold  there,"  I  said,  without  waiting  for  him  to 
catch  his  breath,  "and  I'll  get  hold  here.  Together  we  can  easily 
get  the  wheel  off." 

Without  a  word  he  set  his  cane  against  the  barn  and  bent 
his  back,  up  came  the  axle  and  I  propped  it  with  a  board. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "you  hang  on  there  and  steady  it  while  I  get 
the  wheel  off" — though,  indeed,  it  didn't  really  need  much 
steadying. 

As  I  straightened  up,  whom  should  I  see  but  Harriet  standing 
transfixed  in  the  pathway  half  way  down  to  the  barn,  transfixed 
with  horror.  She  had  recognised  John  Starkweather  and  had 
heard  at  least  part  of  what  I  said  to  him,  and  the  vision  of  that 
important  man  bending  his  back  to  help  lift  the  axle  of  my  old 
wagon  was  too  terrible!  She  caught  my  eye  and  pointed  and 
mouthed.  When  I  smiled  and  nodded,  John  Starkweather 
straightened  up  and  looked  around. 

"Don't,  on  your  life,"  I  warned,  "let  go  of  that  axle." 

He  held  on  and  Harriet  turned  and  retreated  ingloriously. 
John  Starkweather's  face  was  a  study! 

"Did  you  ever  grease  a  wagon?"  I  asked  him  genially. 

"Never,"  he  said. 

"There's  more  of  an  art  in  it  than  you  think,"  I  said,  and  as  I 
worked  I  talked  to  him  of  the  lore  of  axle-grease  and  showed 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  63 

him  exactly  how  to  put  it  on — neither  too  much  nor  too  little, 
and  so  that  it  would  distribute  itself  evenly  when  the  wheel  was 
replaced. 

"There's  a  right  way  of  doing  everything,"  I  observed. 

"That's  so,"  said  John  Starkweather:  "if  I  could  only  get 
workmen  that  believed  it." 

By  that  time  I  could  see  that  he  was  beginning  to  be  inter- 
ested. I  put  back  the  wheel,  gave  it  a  light  turn  and  screwed  on 
the  nut.  He  helped  me  with  the  other  end  of  the  axle  with  all 
good  humour. 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  as  engagingly  as  I  knew  how,  "you'd  like  to 
try  the  art  yourself?  You  take  the  grease  this  time  and  I'll  steady 
the  wagon." 

"All  right!"  he  said,  laughing,  "I'm  in  for  anything." 

He  took  the  grease  box  and  the  paddle— less  gingerly  than  I 
thought  he  would. 

"Is  that  right?"  he  demanded,  and  so  he  put  on  the  grease. 
And  oh,  it  was  good  to  see  Harriet  in  the  doorway! 

"Steady  there,"  I  said,  "not  so  much  at  the  end :  now  put  the 
box  down  on  the  reach." 

And  so  together  we  greased  the  wagon,  talking  all  the  time 
in  the  friendliest  way.  I  actually  believe  that  he  was  having  a 
pretty  good  time.  At  least  it  had  the  virtue  of  unexpectedness. 
He  wasn't  bored! 

When  he  had  finished  we  both  straightened  our  backs  and 
looked  at  each  other.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye:  then  we 
both  laughed.  "He's  all  right,"  I  said  to  myself.  I  held  up  my 
hands,  then  he  held  up  his :  it  was  hardly  necessary  to  prove  that 
wagon-greasing  was  not  a  deUcate  operation. 

"It's  a  good  wholesome  sign,"  I  said,  "but  it'll  come  off.  Do 
you  happen  to  remember  a  story  of  Tolstoi's  called  Ivan  the 
Fool'?" 

("What  is  a  farmer  doing  quoting  Tolstoi!"  remarked  his 
countenance — though  he  said  not  a  word.) 

"In  the  kingdom  of  Ivan,  you  remember,"  I  said,  "it  was  the 
rule  that  whoever  had  hard  places  on  his  hands  came  to  table, 
but  whoever  had  not  must  eat  what  the  others  left." 


64  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Thus  I  led  him  up  to  the  back  steps  and  poured  him  a  basin 
of  hot  water — which  I  brought  myself  from  the  kitchen,  Harriet 
having  marvellously  and  completely  disappeared.  We  both 
washed  our  hands,  talking  with  great  good  humour. 

When  we  had  finished  I  said : 

"Sit  down,  friend,  if  you've  time,  and  let's  talk." 

So  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  logs  of  my  woodpile:  a  solid 
sort  of  man,  rather  warm  after  his  recent  activities.  He  looked 
me  over  with  some  interest  and,  I  thought,  friendliness. 

"Why  does  a  man  like  you,"  he  asked  finally,  "waste  himself 
on  a  little  farm  back  here  in  the  country?" 

For  a  single  instant  I  came  nearer  to  being  angry  than  I  have 
been  for  a  long  time.  Waste  myself!  So  we  are  judged  without 
knowledge.  I  had  a  sudden  impulse  to  demolish  him  (if  I  could) 
wdth  the  nearest  sarcasms  I  could  lay  hand  to.  He  was  so  sure  of 
himself!  "Oh  well,"  I  thought,  with  vainglorious  superiority,  "he 
doesn't  know."  So  I  said: 

"What  would  you  have  me  be — a  millionnaire.?" 

He  smiled,  but  with  a  sort  of  sincerity. 

"You  might  be,"  he  said:  "who  can  tell!" 

I  laughed  outright:  the  humour  of  it  struck  me  as  delicious. 
Here  I  had  been,  ever  since  I  first  heard  of  John  Starkweather, 
rather  gloating  over  him  as  a  poor  suffering  millionnaire  (of 
course  miUionnaires  are  unhappy),  and  there  he  sat,  ruddy  of 
face  and  hearty  of  body,  pitying  me  for  a  poor  unfortunate 
farmer  back  here  in  the  country!  Curious,  this  human  nature  of 
ours,  isn't  it?  But  how  infinitely  beguiling! 

So  I  sat  down  beside  Mr.  Starkweather  on  the  log  and  crossed 
my  legs.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  set  foot  in  a  new  country. 

"Would  you  really  advise  me,"  I  asked,  "to  start  in  to  be  a 
millionnaire?" 

He  chuckled : 

"Well,  that's  one  way  of  putting  it.  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a 
star;  but  begin  by  making  a  few  dollars  more  a  year  than  you 

spend.  When  I  began "  he  stopped  short  with  an  amused 

smile,  remembering  that  I  did  not  know  who  he  was. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "I  understand  that." 


65 


(^  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"A  man  must  begin  small"— he  was  on  pleasant  ground — "and 
anywhere  he  likes,  a  few  dollars  here,  a  few  there.  He  must 
work  hard,  he  must  save,  he  must  be  both  bold  and  cautious. 
I  know  a  man  who  began  when  he  was  about  your  age  with 
total  assets  of  ten  dollars  and  a  good  digestion.  He's  now  con- 
sidered a  fairly  wealthy  man.  He  has  a  home  in  the  city,  a  place 
in  the  country,  and  he  goes  to  Europe  when  he  likes.  He  has  so 
arranged  his  affairs  that  young  men  do  most  of  the  work  and  he 
draws  the  dividends — and  all  in  a  little  more  than  twenty  years. 
I  made  every  single  cent — but  as  I  said,  it's  a  penny  business  to 
start  with.  The  point  is,  I  like  to  see  young  men  ambitious." 

"Ambitious,"  I  asked,  "for  what.?" 

"Why,  to  rise  in  the  world ;  to  get  ahead." 

"I  know  you'll  pardon  me,"  I  said,  "for  appearing  to  cross* 
examine  you,  but  Pm  tremendously  interested  in  these  things. 
What  do  you  mean  by  rising?  And  who  am  I  to  get  ahead  of?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  astonishment,  and  with  evident  im- 
patience at  my  consummate  stupidity. 

"I  am  serious,"  I  said.  "I  really  want  to  make  the  best  I  can 
of  my  life.  It's  the  only  one  I've  got." 

"See  here,"  he  said:  "let  us  say  you  clear  up  five  hundred  a 
year  from  this  farm " 

"You  exaggerate — "  I  interrupted. 

"Do  I?"  he  laughed;  "that  makes  my  case  all  the  better.  Now, 
isn't  it  possible  to  rise  from  that?  Couldn't  you  make  a  thousand 
or  five  thousand  or  even  fifty  thousand  a  year?" 

It  seems  an  unanswerable  argument:  fifty  thousand  dollars! 

"I  suppose  I  might,"  I  said,  "but  do  you  think  I'd  be  any 
better  off  or  happier  with  fifty  thousand  a  year  than  I  am  now? 
You  see,  I  like  all  these  surroundings  better  than  any  other 
place  I  ever  knew.  That  old  green  hill  over  there  with  the  oak  on 
it  is  an  intimate  friend  of  mine.  I  have  a  good  cornfield  in  which 
every  year  I  work  miracles.  I've  a  cow  and  a  horse,  and  a  few 
pigs.  I  have  a  comfortable  home.  My  appetite  is  perfect,  and  I 
have  plenty  of  food  to  gratify  it.  I  sleep  every  night  like  a  boy, 
for  I  haven't  a  trouble  in  this  world  to  disturb  me.  I  enjoy  the 
mornings  here  in  the  country:  and  the  evenings  are  pleasant. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  67 

Some  of  my  neighbours  have  come  to  be  my  good  friends.  I  Hke 
them  and  I  am  pretty  sure  they  hke  me.  Inside  the  house  there 
I  have  the  best  books  ever  written  and  I  have  time  in  the  eve- 
nings to  read  them — I  mean  really  read  them.  Now  the  question 
is,  would  I  be  any  better  off,  or  any  happier,  if  I  had  fifty  thou- 
sand a  year?" 

John  Starkweather  laughed. 

'*Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  see  I've  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
philosopher." 

"Let  us  say,"  I  continued,  "that  you  are  willing  to  invest 
twenty  years  of  your  life  in  a  million  dollars."  ("Merely  an  illus- 
tration," said  John  Starkweather.)  "You  have  it  where  you  can 
put  it  in  the  bank  and  take  it  out  again,  or  you  can  give  it  form 
in  houses,  yachts,  and  other  things.  Now  twenty  years  of  my 
life — to  me — is  worth  more  than  a  million  dollars.  I  simply  can't 
afford  to  sell  it  for  that.  I  prefer  to  invest  it,  as  somebody  or 
other  has  said,  unearned  in  life.  I've  always  had  a  liking  for 
intangible  properties." 

"See  here,"  said  John  Starkweather,  "you  are  taking  a  narrow 
view  of  life.  You  are  making  your  own  pleasure  the  only 
standard.  Shouldn't  a  man  make  the  most  of  the  talents  given 
hirci}  Hasn't  he  a  duty  to  society?" 

"Now  you  are  shifting  your  ground,"  I  said,  "from  the  ques- 
tion of  personal  satisfaction  to  that  of  duty.  That  concerns  me, 
too.  Let  me  ask  you:  Isn't  it  important  to  society  that  this  piece 
of  earth  be  plowed  and  cultivated?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"Isn't  it  honest  and  useful  work?" 

"Of  course." 

"Isn't  it  important  that  it  shall  not  only  be  done,  but  well 
done?" 

"Certainly." 

"It  takes  all  there  is  in  a  good  man,"  I  said,  "to  be  a  good 
farmer." 

"But  the  point  is,"  he  argued,  "might  not  the  same  faculties 
applied  to  other  things  yield  better  and  bigger  results?" 

"That  is  a  problem,  of  course,"  I  said.  "I  tried  money-making 


68  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

once — in  a  city — and  I  was  unsuccessful  and  unhappy;  here  I  am 
both  successful  and  happy.  I  suppose  I  was  one  of  the  young 
men  who  did  the  work  while  some  millionnaire  drew  the  divi- 
dends." (I  was  cutting  close,  and  I  didn't  venture  to  look  at 
him).  "No  doubt  he  had  his  houses  and  yachts  and  went  to 
Europe  when  he  liked.  I  know  I  lived  upstairs — back — where 
there  wasn't  a  tree  to  be  seen,  or  a  spear  of  green  grass,  or  a  hill, 
or  a  brook:  only  smoke  and  chimneys  and  littered  roofs.  Lord 
be  thanked  for  my  escape!  Sometimes  I  think  that  Success  has 
formed  a  silent  conspiracy  against  Youth.  Success  holds  up  a 
single  glittering  apple  and  bids  Youth  strip  and  run  for  it;  and 
Youth  runs  and  Success  still  holds  the  apple." 

John  Starkweather  said  nothing. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "there  are  duties.  We  realise,  we  farmers,  that 
we  must  produce  more  than  we  ourselves  can  eat  or  wear  or 
burn.  We  realise  that  we  are  the  foundation :  we  connect  human 
life  with  the  earth.  We  dig  and  plant  and  produce,  and  having 
eaten  at  the  first  table  ourselves,  we  pass  v/hat  is  left  to  the 
bankers  and  millionnaires.  Did  you  ever  think,  stranger,  that 
most  of  the  wars  of  the  world  have  been  fought  for  the  control 
of  this  farmer's  second  table  ?  Have  you  thought  that  the  surplus 
of  wheat  and  corn  and  cotton  is  what  the  railroads  are  strug- 
gling to  carry  ?  Upon  our  surplus  run  all  the  factories  and  mills ; 
a  little  of  it  gathered  in  cash  makes  a  millionnaire.  But  we 
farmers,  we  sit  back  comfortably  after  dinner,  and  joke  with  our 
wives  and  play  with  our  babies,  and  let  all  the  rest  of  you  fight 
for  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  our  abundant  tables.  If  once  we 
really  cared  and  got  up  and  shook  ourselves,  and  said  to  the 
maid:  'Here,  child,  don't  waste  the  crusts:  gather  'em  up  and 
to-morrow  we'll  have  a  cottage  pudding,'  where  in  the  world 
would  all  the  millionnaires  be?" 

Oh,  I  tell  you,  I  waxed  eloquent.  I  couldn't  let  John  Stark- 
weather, or  any  other  man,  get  away  with  the  conviction  that  a 
millionnaire  is  better  than  a  farmer.  "Moreover,"  I  said,  "think 
of  the  position  of  the  millionnaire.  He  spends  his  time  playing 
not  with  life,  but  with  the  symbols  of  life,  whether  cash  or 
houses.  Any  day  the  symbols  may  change;  a  little  war  may  hap- 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  69 

pen  along,  there  may  be  a  defective  flue  or  a  western  breeze,  or 
even  a  panic  because  the  farmers  aren't  scattering  as  many 
crumbs  as  usual  (they  call  it  crop  failure,  but  I've  noticed  that 
the  farmers  still  continue  to  have  plenty  to  eat)  and  then  what 
happens  to  your  millionnaire  ?  Not  knowing  how  to  produce 
anything  himself,  he  would  starve  to  death  if  there  were  not 
always,  somewhere,  a  farmer  to  take  him  up  to  the  table." 

"You're  making  a  strong  case,"  laughed  John  Starkweather, 

"Strong!"  I  said.  "It  is  simply  wonderful  what  a  leverage  upon 
society  a  few  acres  of  land,  a  cow,  a  pig  or  two,  and  a  span  of 
horses  gives  a  man.  I'm  ridiculously  independent.  I'd  be  the 
hardest  sort  of  a  man  to  dislodge  or  crush.  I  tell  you,  my  friend, 
a  farmer  is  like  an  oak,  his  roots  strike  deep  in  the  soil,  he  draws 
a  sufficiency  of  food  from  the  earth  itself,  he  breathes  the  free 
air  around  him,  his  thirst  is  quenched  by  heaven  itself — and 
there's  no  tax  on  sunshine." 

I  paused  for  very  lack  of  breath.  John  Starkweather  was 
laughing. 

"When  you  commiserate  me,  therefore"  ("I'm  sure  I  shall 
never  do  it  again,"  said  John  Starkweather) — "when  you  com- 
miserate me,  therefore,  and  advise  me  to  rise,  you  must  give  me 
really  good  reasons  for  changing  my  occupation  and  becoming 
a  millionnaire.  You  must  prove  to  me  that  I  can  be  more  inde- 
pendent, more  honest,  more  useful  as  a  millionnaire,  and  that  I 
shall  have  better  and  truer  friends!" 

John  Starkweather  looked  around  at  me  (I  knew  I  had  been 
absurdly  eager  and  I  was  rather  ashamed  of  myself)  and  put  his 
hand  on  my  knee  (he  has  a  wonderfully  fine  eye ! ) . 

"I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "you'd  have  any  truer  friends." 

"Anyway,"  I  said  repentantly,  "I'll  admit  that  millionnaires 
have  their  place — at  present  I  wouldn't  do  entirely  away  with 
them,  though  I  do  think  they'd  enjoy  farming  better.  And  if  I 
were  to  select  a  millionnaire  for  all  the  best  things  I  know,  I 
should  certainly  choose  you,  Mr.  Starkweather." 

He  jumped  up. 

"You  know  who  I  am.f*"  he  asked. 

I  nodded. 


70  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"And  you  knew  all  the  time?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  you're  a  good  one!" 

We  both  laughed  and  fell  to  talking  with  the  greatest  friendli- 
ness. I  led  him  down  my  garden  to  show  him  my  prize  pie-plant, 
of  which  I  am  enormously  proud,  and  I  pulled  for  him  some  of 
the  finest  stalks  I  could  find. 

"Take  it  home,"  I  said,  "it  makes  the  best  pies  of  any  pie- 
plant in  this  country." 

He  took  it  under  his  arm. 

"I  want  you  to  come  over  and  see  me  the  first  chance  you 
get,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  prove  to  you  by  physical  demonstra- 
tion that  it's  better  sport  to  be  a  millionnaire  than  a  farmer — not 
that  I  am  a  millionnaire:  I'm  only  accepting  the  reputation  you 
give  me." 

So  I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  lane. 

"Let  me  know  when  you  grease  up  again,"  he  said,  "and  I'D 
come  over." 

So  we  shook  hands:  and  he  set  oflF  sturdily  down  the  road 
with  the  pie-plant  leaves  waving  cheerfully  over  his  shoulder. 


'Somehow,  and  suddenly,  I  was  a  boy  again" 


VIII 
A  BOY  AND  A  PREACHER 


XHis  MORNING  I  Went  to  church  with  Harriet.  I  usually  have 
some  excuse  for  not  going,  but  this  morning  I  had  them  out  one 
by  one  and  they  were  altogether  so  shabby  that  I  decided  not  to 
use  them.  So  I  put  on  my  stiff  shirt  and  Harriet  came  out  in  her 
best  black  cape  with  the  silk  fringes.  She  looked  so  immaculate, 
so  ruddy,  so  cheerfully  sober  (for  Sunday)  that  I  was  reconciled 
to  the  idea  of  driving  her  up  to  the  church.  And  I  am  glad  I 
went,  for  the  experience  I  had. 

It  was  an  ideal  summer  Sunday :  sunshiny,  clear  and  still.  I  be- 
lieve if  I  had  been  some  Rip  Van  Winkle  waking  after  twenty 
years'  sleep  I  should  have  known  it  for  Sunday.  Away  off  over 
the  hill  somewhere  we  could  hear  a  lazy  farm  boy  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice:  the  higher  cadences  of  his  song  reached  us 
pleasantly  through  the  still  air.  The  hens  sitting  near  the  lane 
fence,  fluffing  the  dust  over  their  backs,  were  holding  a  small 

71 


72  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

and  talkative  service  of  their  own.  As  we  turned  into  the  main 
road  we  saw  the  Patterson  children  on  their  way  to  church,  all 
the  little  girls  in  Sunday  ribbons,  and  all  the  Httle  boys  very  un- 
comfortable in  knit  stockings. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  go  to  church  on  a  day  like  this,"  I  said  to 
Harriet. 

"A  pity!"  she  exclaimed.  "Could  anything  be  more  appro- 
priate?" 

Harriet  is  good  because  she  can't  help  it.  Poor  woman!— but 
I  haven't  any  pity  for  her. 

It  sometimes  seems  to  me  the  more  worshipful  I  feel  the  less 
I  want  to  go  to  church.  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  these  forms, 
simple  though  they  are,  trouble  me.  The  moment  an  emotion, 
especially  a  religious  emotion,  becomes  an  institution,  it  some- 
how loses  life.  True  emotion  is  rare  and  costly  and  that  which  is 
awakened  from  without  never  rises  to  the  height  of  that  which 
springs  spontaneously  from  within. 

Back  of  the  church  stands  a  long  low  shed  where  we  tied  our 
horse.  A  number  of  other  buggies  were  already  there,  several 
women  were  standing  in  groups,  preening  their  feathers,  a 
neighbour  of  ours  who  has  a  tremendous  bass  voice  was  talking 
to  a  friend : 

"Yas,  oats  is  showing  up  well,  but  wheat  is  backward." 

His  voice,  which  he  was  evidently  trying  to  subdue  for  Sun- 
day, boomed  through  the  still  air.  So  we  walked  among  the  trees 
to  the  door  of  the  church.  A  smiling  elder,  in  an  unaccustomed 
long  coat,  bowed  and  greeted  us.  As  we  went  in  there  was  an 
odour  of  cushions  and  our  footsteps  on  the  wooden  floor  echoed 
in  the  warm  emptiness  of  the  church.  The  Scotch  preacher  was 
finding  his  place  in  the  big  Bible;  he  stood  solid  and  shaggy  be- 
hind the  yellow  oak  pulpit,  a  peculiar  professional  look  on  his 
face.  In  the  pulpit  the  Scotch  preacher  is  too  much  minister,  too 
little  man.  He  is  best  down  among  us  with  his  hand  in  ours. 
He  is  a  sort  of  human  solvent.  Is  there  a  twisted  and  hardened 
heart  in  the  community  he  beams  upon  it  from  his  cheerful  eye, 
he  speaks  out  of  his  great  charity,  he  gives  the  friendly  pressure 
of  his  large  hand,  and  that  hardened  heart  dissolves  and  its 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  73 

frozen  hopelessness  loses  itself  in  tears.  So  he  goes  through  life, 
seeming  always  to  understand.  He  is  not  surprised  by  wicked- 
ness nor  discouraged  by  weakness:  he  is  so  sure  of  a  greater 
Strength! 

But  I  must  come  to  my  experience,  which  I  am  almost 
tempted  to  call  a  resurrection— the  resurrection  of  a  boy,  long 
since  gone  away,  and  of  a  tall  lank  preacher  who,  in  his  humility, 
looked  upon  himself  as  a  failure.  I  hardly  know  how  it  all  came 
back  to  me;  possibly  it  was  the  scent-laden  breeze  that  came  in 
from  the  woods  and  through  the  half-open  church  window, 
perhaps  it  was  a  line  in  one  of  the  old  songs,  perhaps  it  was  the 
droning  voice  of  the  Scotch  preacher — somehow,  and  suddenly, 
I  was  a  boy  again. 

To  this  day  I  think  of  death  as  a  valley:  a  dark  shadowy 

valley :  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  So  persistent  are  the 
impressions  of  boyhood!  As  I  sat  in  the  church  I  could  see,  as 
distinctly  as  though  I  were  there,  the  church  of  my  boyhood  and 
the  tall  dyspeptic  preacher  looming  above  the  pulpit,  the  peculiar 
way  the  light  came  through  the  coarse  colour  of  the  windows, 
the  barrenness  and  stiffness  of  the  great  empty  room,  the  raw 
girders  overhead,  the  prim  choir.  There  was  something  in  that 
preacher,  gaunt,  worn,  sodden  though  he  appeared:  a  spark 
somewhere,  a  little  flame,  mostly  smothered  by  the  gray  dreari- 
ness of  his  surroundings,  and  yet  blazing  up  at  times  to  some 
warmth. 

As  I  remember  it,  our  church  was  a  church  of  failures.  They 
sent  us  the  old  gray  preachers  worn  out  in  other  fields.  Such  a 
succession  of  them  I  remember,  each  with  some  peculiarity, 
some  pathos.  They  were  of  the  old  sort,  indoctrinated  Presby- 
terians, and  they  harrowed  well  our  barren  field  with  the  tooth 
of  their  hard  creed.  Some  thundered  the  Law,  some  pleaded 
Love;  but  of  all  of  them  I  remember  best  the  one  who  thought 
himself  the  greatest  failure.  I  think  he  had  tried  a  hundred 
churches — a  hard  life,  poorly  paid,  unappreciated — in  a  new 
country.  He  had  once  had  a  family,  but  one  by  one  they  had 
died.  No  two  were  buried  in  the  same  cemetery;  and  finally, 
before  he  came  to  our  village,  his  wife,  too,  had  gone.  And  he 


74  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

was  old,  and  out  of  health,  and  discouraged :  seeking  some  final 
warmth  from  his  own  cold  doctrine.  How  I  see  him,  a  trifle 
bent,  in  his  long  worn  coat,  walking  in  the  country  roads:  not 
knowing  of  a  boy  who  loved  him! 

He  told  my  father  once:  I  recall  his  exact  words: 

"My  days  have  been  long,  and  I  have  failed.  It  was  not  given 
me  to  reach  men's  hearts." 

Oh,  gray  preacher,  may  I  now  make  amends?  Will  you  for- 
give me?  I  was  a  boy  and  did  not  know;  a  boy  whose  emotions 
were  hidden  under  mountains  of  reserve :  who  could  have  stood 
up  to  be  shot  more  easily  than  he  could  have  said:  "I  love  you!" 

Of  that  preacher's  sermons  I  remember  not  one  word,  though 
I  must  have  heard  scores  of  them — only  that  they  were  inter- 
minably long  and  dull  and  that  my  legs  grew  weary  of  sitting 
and  that  I  was  often  hungry.  It  was  no  doubt  the  dreadful  old 
doctrine  that  he  preached,  thundering  the  horrors  of  disobedi- 
ence, urging  an  impossible  love  through  fear  and  a  vain  belief 
without  reason.  All  that  touched  me  not  at  all,  save  with  a  sort 
of  wonder  at  the  working  of  his  great  Adam's  apple  and  the 
strange  rolUngs  of  his  cavernous  eyes.  This  he  looked  upon  as 
the  work  of  God;  thus  for  years  he  had  sought,  with  self- 
confessed  failure,  to  touch  the  souls  of  his  people.  How  we 
travel  in  darkness  and  the  work  we  do  in  all  seriousness  counts 
for  naught,  and  the  thing  we  toss  off  in  play-time,  unconsciously, 
God  uses! 

One  tow-headed  boy  sitting  there  in  a  front  row  dreaming 
dreams,  if  the  sermons  touched  him  not,  was  yet  thrilled  to  the 
depths  of  his  being  by  that  tall  preacher.  Somewhere,  I  said, 
he  had  a  spark  within  him.  I  think  he  never  knew  it:  or  if  he 
knew  it,  he  regarded  it  as  a  wayward  impulse  that  might  lead 
him  from  his  God.  It  was  a  spark  of  poetry:  strange  flower  in 
such  a  husk.  In  times  of  emotion  it  bloomed,  but  in  daily  life  it 
emitted  no  fragrance.  I  have  wondered  what  might  have  been 
if  some  one— some  understanding  woman— had  recognised  his 
gift,  or  if  he  himself  as  a  boy  had  once  dared  to  cut  free!  We  do 
not  know:  we  do  not  know  the  tragedy  of  our  nearest  friend! 

By  some  instinct  the  preacher  chose  his  readings  mostly  from 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  75 

the  Old  Testament — those  splendid,  marching  passages,  full  of 
oriental  imagery.  As  he  read  there  would  creep  into  his  voice 
a  certain  resonance  that  lifted  him  and  his  calling  suddenly 
above  his  gray  surroundings. 

How  vividly  I  recall  his  reading  of  the  twenty-third  Psalm — a 
particular  reading.  I  suppose  I  had  heard  the  passage  many  times 
before,  but  upon  this  certain  morning 

Shall  I  ever  forget  ?  The  windows  were  open,  for  it  was  May, 
and  a  boy  could  look  out  on  the  hillside  and  see  with  longing 
eyes  the  inviting  grass  and  trees.  A  soft  wind  blew  in  across 
the  church;  it  was  full  of  the  very  essence  of  spring.  I  smell  it 
yet.  On  the  pulpit  stood  a  bunch  of  crocuses  crowded  into  a 
vase:  some  Mary's  offering.  An  old  man  named  Johnson  who  sat 
near  us  was  already  beginning  to  breathe  heavily,  preparatory  to 
sinking  into  his  regular  Sunday  snore.  Then  those  words  from 
the  preacher,  bringing  me  suddenly — how  shall  I  express  it? — 
out  of  some  formless  void,  to  intense  consciousness — a  miracle 
of  creation: 

"Yea  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil:  for  thou  art  with  me;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they 
comfort  me." 

Well,  I  saw  the  way  to  the  place  of  death  that  morning; 
far  more  vividly  I  saw  it  than  any  natural  scene  I  know:  and 
myself  walking  therein.  I  shall  know  it  again  when  I  come  to 
pass  that  way;  the  tall,  dark,  rocky  cHffs,  the  shadowy  path 
within,  the  overhanging  dark  branches,  even  the  whitened  dead 
bones  by  the  way — and  as  one  of  the  vivid  phantasms  of  boy- 
hood— cloaked  figures  I  saw,  lurking  mysteriously  in  deep  re- 
cesses, fearsome  for  their  very  silence.  And  yet  I  with  magic  rod 
and  staff  walking  within— boldly,  fearing  no  evil,  full  of  faith, 
hope,  courage,  love,  invoking  images  of  terror  but  for  the  joy 
of  braving  them.  Ah,  tow-headed  boy,  shall  I  tread  as  lightly  that 
dread  pathway  when  I  come  to  it?  Shall  I,  Hke  you,  fear  no  evil! 

So  that  great  morning  went  away.  I  heard  nothing  of  singing 
or  sermon  and  came  not  to  myself  until  my  mother,  touching 
my  arm,  asked  me  if  I  had  been  asleep!  And  I  smiled  and 


76  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

thought  how  little  grown  people  knew — and  I  looked  up  at  the 
sad  sick  face  of  the  old  preacher  with  a  new  interest  and  friend- 
Hness.  I  felt,  somehow,  that  he  too  was  a  familiar  of  my  secret 
valley.  I  should  have  liked  to  ask  him,  but  I  did  not  dare.  So  I 
followed  my  mother  when  she  went  to  speak  to  him,  and  when 
he  did  not  see,  I  touched  his  coat. 

After  that  how  I  watched  when  he  came  to  the  reading.  And 
one  great  Sunday,  he  chose  a  chapter  from  Ecclesiastes,  the  one 
that  begins  sonorously: 

"Remember  now  thy  creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth." 

Surely  that  gaunt  preacher  had  the  true  fire  in  his  gray 
soul.  How  his  voice  dwelt  and  quivered  and  softened  upon  the 
words! 

"While  the  sun,  or  the  light,  or  the  moon,  or  the  stars,  be  not 
darkened,  nor  the  clouds  return  after  the  rain " 

Thus  he  brought  in  the  universe  to  that  small  church  and 
filled  the  heart  of  a  boy. 

"In  the  days  when  the  keepers  of  the  house  shall  tremble,  and  the 
strong  men  shall  bow  themselves,  and  the  grinders  cease  because 
they  are  few,  and  those  that  look  out  of  the  windows  be  darkened. 

"And  the  doors  shall  be  shut  in  the  streets,  when  the  sound  of 
the  grinding  is  low,  and  he  shall  rise  up  at  the  voice  of  the  bird  and 
all  the  daughters  of  music  shall  be  brought  low." 

Do  not  think  that  I  understood  the  meaning  of  those  pas- 
sages :  I  am  not  vain  enough  to  think  I  know  even  now — but  the 
sound  of  them,  the  roll  of  them,  the  beautiful  words,  and  above 
all,  the  pictures! 

Those  Daughters  of  Music,  how  I  Hved  for  days  imagining 
them!  They  were  of  the  trees  and  the  hills,  and  they  were  very 
beautiful  but  elusive;  one  saw  them  as  he  heard  singing  afar  ofiF, 
sweet  strains  fading  often  into  silences.  Daughters  of  Music! 
Daughters  of  Music!  And  why  should  they  be  brought  low? 

Doors  shut  in  the  street— how  I  saw  them— a  long,  long  street, 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  77 

silent,  full  of  sunshine,  and  the  doors  shut,  and  no  sound  any- 
where but  the  low  sound  of  the  grinding:  and  the  mill  with  the 
wheels  drowsily  turning  and  no  one  there  at  all  save  one  boy 
with  fluttering  heart,  tiptoeing  in  the  sunlit  doorway. 

And  the  voice  of  the  bird.  Not  the  song  but  the  voice.  Yes, 
a  bird  had  a  voice.  I  had  known  it  always,  and  yet  somehow  I  had 
not  dared  to  say  it.  I  felt  that  they  would  look  at  me  with  that 
questioning,  incredulous  look  which  I  dreaded  beyond  belief. 
They  might  laugh!  But  here  it  was  in  the  Book — the  voice  of  a 
bird.  How  my  appreciation  of  that  Book  increased  and  what  a 
new  confidence  it  gave  me  in  my  own  images!  I  went  about  for 
days,  Hstening,  listening,  listening — and  interpreting. 

So  the  words  of  the  preacher  and  the  fire  in  them: 

"And  when  they  shall  be  afraid  of  that  which  is  high  and  fears 
shall  be  in  the  way " 

I  knew  the  fear  of  that  which  is  high:  I  had  dreamed  of  it 
commonly.  And  I  knew  also  the  Fear  that  stood  in  the  way:  him 
I  had  seen  in  a  myriad  of  forms,  looming  black  by  darkness  in 
every  lane  I  trod;  and  yet  with  what  defiance  I  met  and  slew 
him! 

And  then,  more  thrilling  than  all  else,  the  words  of  the 
preacher: 

"Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken, 
or  the  pitcher  be  broken  at  the  fountain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at 
the  cistern." 

Such  pictures:  that  silver  cord,  that  golden  bowl!  And  why 
and  wherefore? 

A  thousand  ways  I  turned  them  in  my  mind— and  always 
with  the  sound  of  the  preacher's  voice  in  my  ears — the  resonance 
of  the  words  conveying  an  indescribable  fire  of  inspiration. 
Vaguely  and  yet  with  certainty  I  knew  the  preacher  spoke  out  of 
some  unfathomable  emotion  which  I  did  not  understand — which 
I  did  not  care  to  understand.  Since  then  I  have  thought  what 
those  words  must  have  meant  to  him! 


78  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Ah,  that  tall  lank  preacher,  who  thought  himself  a  failure: 
how  long  I  shall  remember  him  and  the  words  he  read  and  the 
mournful  yet  resonant  cadences  of  his  voice — and  the  barren 
church,  and  the  stony  religion!  Heaven  he  gave  me,  unknowing, 
while  he  preached  an  ineffectual  hell. 

As  we  rode  home  Harriet  looked  into  my  face. 

"You  have  enjoyed  the  service,"  she  said  softly. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"It  was  a  good  sermon,"  she  said. 

"Was  it?"  I  replied. 


IX 
THE  TRAMP 

1  HAVE  HAD  a  new  and  strange  experience — droll  in  one  way, 
grotesque  in  another  and  when  everything  is  said,  tragic:  at 
least  an  adventure.  Harriet  looks  at  me  accusingly,  and  I  have 
had  to  preserve  the  air  o£  one  deeply  contrite  now  for  two 
days  (no  easy  accompHshment  for  me!),  even  though  in  secret 
I  have  smiled  and  pondered. 

How  our  life  has  been  warped  by  books!  We  are  not  con- 
tented with  reahties:  we  crave  conclusions.  With  what  ardour 
our  minds  respond  to  real  events  with  literary  deductions.  Upon 
a  train  of  incidents,  as  unconnected  as  life  itself,  we  are  wont  to 
clap  a  booky  ending.  An  instinctive  desire  for  completeness  ani- 
mates the  human  mind  (a  struggle  to  circumscribe  the  infinite). 
We  would  like  to  have  life  "turn  out" — but  it  doesn't — it  doesn't. 
Each  event  is  the  beginning  of  a  whole  new  genealogy  of  events. 
In  boyhood  I  remember  asking  after  every  story  I  heard :  "What 
happened  next?"  for  no  conclusion  ever  quite  satisfied  me — even 
when  the  hero  died  in  his  own  gore.  I  always  knew  there  was 
something  yet  remaining  to  be  told.  The  only  sure  conclusion  we 
can  reach  is  this :  Life  changes.  And  what  is  more  enthralling  to 
the  human  mind  than  this  splendid,  boundless,  coloured  muta- 
bility!— life  in  the  making?  How  strange  it  is,  then,  that  we 
should  be  contented  to  take  such  small  parts  of  it  as  we  can 
grasp,  and  to  say,  "This  is  the  true  explanation."  By  such  de^ 

79 


80  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

vices  we  seek  to  bring  infinite  existence  within  our  finite  egoistic 
grasp.  We  solidify  and  define  where  soHdification  means  loss  of 
interest;  and  loss  of  interest,  not  years,  is  old  age. 

So  I  have  mused  since  my  tramp  came  in  for  a  moment  out  of 
the  Mystery  (as  we  all  do)  and  went  away  again  into  the  Mys- 
tery (in  our  way,  too). 

There  are  strange  things  in  this  world! 

As  I  came  around  the  corner  I  saw  sitting  there  on  my  steps 
the  very  personification  of  Ruin,  a  tumble-down,  dilapidated 
wreck  of  manhood.  He  gave  one  the  impression  of  having  been 
dropped  where  he  sat,  all  in  a  heap.  My  first  instinctive  feeUng 
was  not  one  of  recoil  or  even  of  hostility,  but  rather  a  sudden  de- 
sire to  pick  him  up  and  put  him  where  he  belonged,  the  instinct, 
I  should  say,  of  the  normal  man  who  hangs  his  axe  always  on 
rhe  same  nail.  When  he  saw  me  he  gathered  himself  together 
with  reluctance  and  stood  fully  revealed.  It  was  a  curious  atti- 
tude of  mingled  effrontery  and  apology.  "Hit  me  if  you  dare," 
blustered  his  outward  personality.  "For  God's  sake,  don't  hit 
me,"  cried  the  innate  fear  in  his  eyes.  I  stopped  and  looked  at 
him  sharply.  His  eyes  dropped,  his  look  sHd  away,  so  that  I 
experienced  a  sense  of  shame,  as  though  I  had  trampled  upon 
him.  A  damp  rag  of  humanity!  I  confess  that  my  first  impulse, 
and  a  strong  one,  was  to  kick  him  for  the  good  of  the  human 
race.  No  man  has  a  right  to  be  like  that. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  I  had  a  great  revulsion  of  feeling. 
What  was  I  that  I  should  judge  without  knowledge?  Perhaps,' 
after  all,  here  was  one  bearing  treasure.  So  I  said : 

"You  are  the  man  I  have  been  expecting." 

He  did  not  reply,  only  flashed  his  eyes  up  at  me,  wherein 
fear  deepened. 

"I  have  been  saving  up  a  coat  for  you,"  I  said,  "and  a  pair  of 
shoes.  They  are  not  much  worn,"  I  said,  "but  a  little  too  small 
for  me.  I  think  they  will  fit  you." 

He  looked  at  me  again,  not  sharply,  but  with  a  sort  of  weak 
cunning.  So  far  he  had  not  said  a  word. 

"I  think  our  supper  is  nearly  ready,"  I  said:  "let  us  go  in." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  81 

"No,  mister,"  he  mumbled,  "a  bite  out  here — no,  mister" — 
and  then,  as  though  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  inspired  him,  he 
grew  declamatory. 

"I'm  a  respectable  man,  mister,  plumber  by  trade,  but " 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  "you  can't  get  any  work,  you're  cold 
and  you  haven't  had  anything  to  eat  for  two  days,  so  you  are 
walking  out  here  in  the  country  where  we  farmers  have  no 
plumbing  to  do.  At  home  you  have  a  starving  wife  and  three 
small  children " 

"Six,  mister " 

"Well,  six —  And  now  we  will  go  in  to  supper." 

I  led  him  into  the  entry  way  and  poured  for  him  a  big  basin 
of  hot  water.  As  I  stepped  out  again  with  a  comb  he  was  slinking 
toward  the  doorway. 

"Here,"  I  said,  "is  a  comb;  we  are  having  supper  now  in  a  few 
minutes." 

I  wish  I  could  picture  Harriet's  face  when  I  brought  him  into 
her  immaculate  kitchen.  But  I  gave  her  a  look,  one  of  the  com- 
manding sort  that  I  can  put  on  in  times  of  great  emergency,  and 
she  silently  laid  another  place  at  the  table. 

When  I  came  to  look  at  our  Ruin  by  the  full  lamplight  I  was 
surprised  to  see  what  a  change  a  little  warm  water  and  a  comb 
had  wrought  in  him.  He  came  to  the  table  uncertain,  bUnking, 
apologetic.  His  forehead,  I  saw,  was  really  impressive — high, 
narrow  and  thin-skinned.  His  face  gave  one  somehow  the  im- 
pression of  a  carving  once  full  of  significant  lines,  now  blurred 
and  worn  as  though  Time,  having  first  marked  it  with  the  lines 
of  character,  had  grown  discouraged  and  brushed  the  hand  of 
forgetfulness  over  her  work.  He  had  pecuhar  thin,  silky  hair 
of  no  particular  colour,  with  a  certain  almost  childish  pathetic 
waviness  around  the  ears  and  at  the  back  of  the  neck.  Some- 
thing, after  all,  about  the  man  aroused  one's  compassion. 

I  don't  know  that  he  looked  dissipated,  and  surely  he  was  not 
as  dirty  as  I  had  at  first  supposed.  Something  remained  that  sug- 
gested a  care  for  himself  in  the  past.  It  was  not  dissipation,  I 
decided;  it  was  rather  an  indefinable  looseness  and  weakness, 
»:hat  gave  one  alternately  the  feeling  I  had  first  experienced,  that 


82  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

of  anger,  succeeded  by  the  compassion  that  one  feels  for  a  child. 
To  Harriet,  when  she  had  once  seen  him,  he  was  all  child,  and 
she  all  compassion. 

We  disturbed  him  with  no  questions.  Harriet's  fundamental 
quality  is  homeliness,  comfortableness.  Her  tea-kettle  seems  al- 
ways singing;  an  indefinable  tabbiness,  as  of  feather  cushions, 
lurks  in  her  dining-room,  a  right  warmth  of  table  and  chairs,  in- 
describably comfortable  at  the  end  of  a  chilly  day.  A  busy 
good-smelling  steam  arises  from  all  her  dishes  at  once,  and  the 
light  in  the  middle  of  the  table  is  of  a  redness  that  enthralls  the 
human  soul.  As  for  Harriet  herself,  she  is  the  personification  of 
comfort,  airy,  clean,  warm,  inexpressibly  wholesome.  And  never 
in  the  world  is  she  so  engaging  as  when  she  ministers  to  a  man's 
hunger.  Truthfully,  sometimes,  when  she  comes  to  me  out  of 
the  dimmer  light  of  the  kitchen  to  the  radiance  of  the  table 
with  a  plate  of  muffins,  it  is  as  though  she  and  the  muffins  were 
a  part  of  each  other,  and  that  she  is  really  offering  some  of  her- 
self. And  down  in  my  heart  I  know  she  is  doing  just  that! 

Well,  it  was  wonderful  to  see  our  Ruin  expand  in  the  warmth 
of  Harriet's  presence.  He  had  been  doubtful  of  me;  of  Harriet, 
I  could  see,  he  was  absolutely  sure.  And  how  he  did  eat,  saying 
nothing  at  all,  while  Harriet  pHed  him  with  food  and  talked  to 
me  of  the  most  disarming  commonplaces.  I  think  it  did  her 
heart  good  to  see  the  way  he  ate;  as  though  he  had  had  nothing 
before  in  days.  As  he  buttered  his  muffin,  not  without  some 
refinement,  I  could  see  that  his  hand  was  long,  a  curious,  lean, 
ineffectual  hand,  with  a  curving  little  finger.  With  the  drinking 
of  the  hot  coffee  colour  began  to  steal  up  into  his  face,  and  when 
Harriet  brought  out  a  quarter  of  pie  saved  over  from  our  din- 
ner and  placed  it  before  him — a  fine  brown  pie  with  small  hiero- 
glyphics in  the  top  from  whence  rose  sugary  bubbles— he 
seemed  almost  to  escape  himself.  And  Harriet  fairly  purred  with 
hospitality. 

The  more  he  ate  the  more  of  a  man  he  became.  His  manners 
improved,  his  back  straightened  up,  he  acquired  a  not  unimpres- 
sive poise  of  the  head.  Such  is  the  miraculous  power  of  hot 
muffins  and  pie! 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  83 

*'As  you  came  down,"  I  asked  finally,  "did  you  happen  to 
see  old  man  Masterson's  threshing  machine?" 

"A  big  red  one,  with  a  yellow  blow-ofl?" 

"That's  the  one,"  I  said. 

"Well,  it  was  just  turning  into  a  field  about  two  miles  above 
here,"  he  replied. 

"Big  gray,  banked  barn?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  and  a  little  unpainted  house,"  said  our  friend: 

"That's  Parsons',"  put  in  Harriet,  with  a  mellow  laugh.  "I 
wonder  if  he  ever  will  paint  that  house.  He  builds  bigger  barns 
every  year  and  doesn't  touch  the  house.  Poor  Mrs.  Parsons " 

And  so  we  talked  of  barns  and  threshing  machines  in  the  way 
we  farmers  love  to  do  and  I  lured  our  friend  slowly  into  talking 
about  himself.  At  first  he  was  non-committal  enough  and  what 
he  said  seemed  curiously  made  to  order;  he  used  certain  set 
phrases  with  which  to  explain  simply  what  was  not  easy  to  ex- 
plain— a  device  not  uncommon  to  all  of  us.  I  was  fearful  of  not 
getting  within  this  outward  armouring,  but  gradually  as  we 
talked  and  Harriet  poured  him  a  third  cup  of  hot  coffee  he 
dropped  into  a  more  familiar  tone.  He  told  with  some  spright- 
liness  of  having  seen  threshings  in  Mexico,  how  the  grain  was 
beaten  out  with  flails  in  the  patios,  and  afterwards  thrown  up  in 
the  wind  to  winnow  out. 

"You  must  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  life,"  remarked  Harriet 
sympathetically. 

At  this  remark  I  saw  one  of  our  Ruin's  long  hands  draw  up 
and  clinch.  He  turned  his  head  toward  Harriet.  His  face  was 
partly  in  the  shadow,  but  there  was  something  striking  and 
strange  in  the  way  he  looked  at  her,  and  a  deepness  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke: 

"Too  much!  I've  seen  too  much  of  life."  He  threw  out  one 
arm  and  brought  it  back  with  a  shudder. 

"You  see  what  it  has  left  me,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  example  of 
too  much  life." 

In  response  to  Harriet's  melting  compassion  he  had  spoken 
with  unfathomable  bitterness.  Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  to- 
ward me  with  a  piercing  gaze  as  though  he  would  look  into  my 


84  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

soul.  His  face  had  changed  completely;  from  the  loose  and  va- 
cant mask  of  the  early  evening  it  had  taken  on  the  utmost 
tensity  of  emotion. 

"You  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "what  it  is  to  live  too  much — and 
to  be  afraid." 

"Live  too  much?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  live  too  much,  that  is  what  I  do — and  I  am  afraid." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  broke  out  in  a  higher  key: 

"You  think  I  am  a  tramp.  Yes — you  do.  I  know — a  worthless 
fellow,  lying,  begging,  steaHng  when  he  can't  beg.  You  have 
taken  me  in  and  fed  me.  You  have  said  the  first  kind  words 
I  have  heard,  it  seems  to  me,  in  years.  I  don't  know  who  you 
are.  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

I  cannot  well  describe  the  intensity  of  the  passion  with  which 
he  Spoke,  his  face  shaking  with  emotion,  his  hands  trembling. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  said  easily,  "we  are  comfortable  people  here — 
and  it  is  a  good  place  to  live." 

"No  no,"  he  returned.  "I  know,  I've  got  my  call — "  Then  lean- 
ing forward  he  said  in  a  lower,  even  more  intense  voice — "I  live 
everything  beforehand." 

I  was  startled  by  the  look  of  his  eyes:  the  abject  terror  of  it: 
and  I  thought  to  myself,  "The  man  is  not  right  in  his  mind." 
And  yet  I  longed  to  know  of  the  life  within  this  strange  husk 
of  manhood. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  as  if  reading  my  thought,  "you  think"— 
and  he  tapped  his  forehead  with  one  finger — "but  I'm  not.  I'm  as 
sane  as  you  are." 

It  was  a  strange  story  he  told.  It  seems  almost  unbelievable  to 
me  as  I  set  it  down  here,  until  I  reflect  how  little  any  one  of 
us  knows  of  the  deep  life  within  his  nearest  neighbour — what 
stories  there  are,  what  tragedies  enacted  under  a  calm  exterior  I 
What  a  drama  there  may  be  in  this  commonplace  man  buying 
ten  pounds  of  sugar  at  the  grocery  store,  or  this  other  one  driv- 
ing his  two  old  horses  in  the  town  road!  We  do  not  know.  And 
how  rarely  are  the  men  of  inner  adventure  articulate !  Therefore 
I  treasure  the  curious  story  the  tramp  told  me.  I  do  not  question 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  85 

its  truth.  It  came  as  all  truth  does,  through  a  clouded  and  un- 
clean medium:  and  any  judgment  of  the  story  itself  must  be 
based  upon  a  knowledge  of  the  personal  equation  of  the  Ruin 
who  told  it. 

"I  am  no  tramp,"  he  said,  "in  reality,  I  am  no  tramp.  I  began 
as  well  as  anyone —  It  doesn't  matter  now,  only  I  won't  have  any 
of  the  sympathy  that  people  give  to  the  man  who  has  seen  bet- 
ter days.  I  hate  sentiment.  /  hate  it " 

I  cannot  attempt  to  set  down  the  story  in  his  own  words.  It 
was  broken  with  exclamations  and  involved  with  wandering 
sophistries  and  diatribes  of  self-blame.  His  mind  had  trampled 
upon  itself  in  throes  of  introspection  until  it  was  often  difficult 
to  say  which  way  the  paths  of  the  narrative  really  led.  He  had 
thought  so  much  and  acted  so  little  that  he  travelled  in  a  veri- 
table bog  of  indecision.  And  yet,  withal,  some  ideas,  by  con- 
stant attrition,  had  acquired  a  really  striking  form.  "I  am  afraid 
before  life,"  he  said.  "It  makes  me  dizzy  with  thought." 

At  another  time  he  said,  "If  I  am  a  tramp  at  all,  I  am  a  men- 
tal tramp.  I  have  an  unanchored  mind." 

It  seems  that  he  came  to  a  realisation  that  there  was  some- 
thing peculiar  about  him  at  a  very  early  age.  He  said  they  would 
look  at  him  and  whisper  to  one  another  and  that  his  sayings 
were  much  repeated,  often  in  his  hearing.  He  knew  that  he  was 
considered  an  extraordinary  child:  they  baited  him  with  ques- 
tions that  they  might  laugh  at  his  quaint  replies.  He  said  that  as 
early  as  he  could  remember  he  used  to  plan  situations  so  that 
he  might  say  things  that  were  strange  and  even  shocking  in  a 
child.  His  father  was  a  small  professor  in  a  small  college — a 
"worm"  he  called  him  bitterly — "one  of  those  worms  that  bores 
in  books  and  finally  dries  up  and  blows  oflf."  But  his  mother — he 
said  she  was  an  angel.  I  recall  his  exact  expression  about  her 
eyes  that  "when  she  looked  at  one  it  made  him  better."  He 
spoke  of  her  with  a  softening  of  the  voice,  looking  often  at 
Harriet.  He  talked  a  good  deal  about  his  mother,  trying  to  ac- 
count for  himself  through  her.  She  was  not  strong,  he  said,  and 
very  sensitive  to  the  contact  of  either  friends  or  enemies — 
evidently  a  nervous,  high-strung  woman. 


86  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"You  have  known  such  people,"  he  said,  "everything  hurt 
her." 

He  said  she  "starved  to  death."  She  starved  for  affection  and 
understanding. 

One  of  the  first  things  he  recalled  of  his  boyhood  w^as  his 
passionate  love  for  his  mother. 

"I  can  remember,"  he  said,  "lying  aw^ake  in  my  bed  and  think- 
ing how  I  would  love  her  and  serve  her — and  I  could  see  myself 
in  all  sorts  of  impossible  places  saving  her  from  danger.  When 
she  came  to  my  room  to  bid  me  good  night,  I  imagined  how  I 
should  look — for  I  have  always  been  able  to  see  myself  doing 
things — when  I  threw  my  arms  around  her  neck  to  kiss  her." 

Here  he  reached  a  strange  part  of  his  story.  I  had  been  watch- 
ing Harriet  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  At  first  her  face  was 
tearful  with  compassion,  but  as  the  Ruin  proceeded  it  became  a 
study  in  wonder  and  finally  in  outright  alarm.  He  said  that  when 
his  mother  came  in  to  bid  him  good  night  he  saw  himself  so 
plainly  beforehand  ("more  vividly  than  I  see  you  at  this  mO' 
ment")  and  felt  his  emotion  so  keenly  that  when  his  mother  ac- 
tually stooped  to  kiss  him,  somehow  he  could  not  respond.  He 
could  not  throw  his  arms  around  her  neck.  He  said  he  often  lay 
quiet,  in  waiting,  trembling  all  over  until  she  had  gone,  not  only 
suffering  himself  but  pitying  her,  because  he  understood  how  she 
must  feel.  Then  he  would  follow  her,  he  said,  in  imagination 
through  the  long  hall,  seeing  himself  stealing  behind  her,  just 
touching  her  hand,  wistfully  hoping  that  she  might  turn  to 
him  again — and  yet  fearing.  He  said  no  one  knew  the  agonies 
he  suffered  at  seeing  his  mother's  disappointment  over  his  ap- 
parent coldness  and  unresponsiveness. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "it  hastened  her  death." 

He  would  not  go  to  the  funeral;  he  did  not  dare,  he  said.  He 
cried  and  fought  when  they  came  to  take  him  away,  and  when 
the  house  was  silent  he  ran  up  to  her  room  and  buried  his  head 
in  her  pillows  and  ran  in  swift  imagination  to  her  funeral.  He 
said  he  could  see  himself  in  the  country  road,  hurrying  in  the 
cold  rain — ^for  it  seemed  raining— he  said  he  could  actually 
feel  the  stones  and  the  ruts,  although  he  could  not  tell  how  it 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  87 

was  possible  that  he  should  have  seen  himself  at  a  distance 
and  felt  in  his  own  feet  the  stones  of  the  road.  He  said  he  saw 
the  box  taken  from  the  wagon — saw  it — and  that  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  clods  thrown  in,  and  it  made  him  shriek  until  they 
came  running  and  held  him. 

As  he  grew  older  he  said  he  came  to  live  everything  before- 
hand, and  that  the  event  as  imagined  was  so  far  more  vivid  and 
affecting  that  he  had  no  heart  for  the  reality  itself. 

"It  seems  strange  to  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  telling  you  exactly 
what  my  experience  was." 


It  was  curious,  he  said,  when  his  father  told  him  he  must  not 
do  a  thing,  how  he  went  on  and  imagined  in  how  many  different 
ways  he  could  do  it — and  how,  afterward,  he  imagined  he  was 
punished  by  that  "worm,"  his  father,  whom  he  seemed  to  hate 
bitterly.  Of  those  early  days,  in  which  he  suffered  acutely — in 
idleness,  apparently — and  perhaps  that  was  one  of  the  causes 
of  his  disorder — he  told  us  at  length,  but  many  of  the  incidents 
were  so  evidently  worn  by  the  constant  handling  of  his  mind  that 
they  gave  no  clear  impression. 

Finally,  he  ran  away  from  home,  he  said.  At  first  he  found 


88  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

that  a  wholly  new  place  and  new  people  took  him  out  of  him- 
self ("surprised  me,"  he  said,  "so  that  I  could  not  live  everything 
beforehand").  Thus  he  fled.  The  slang  he  used,  "chased  himself 
all  over  the  country,"  seemed  peculiarly  expressive.  He  had  been 
in  foreign  countries;  he  had  herded  sheep  in  Australia  (so  he 
said),  and  certainly  from  his  knowledge  of  the  country  he  had 
wandered  with  the  gamboleros  of  South  America;  he  had  gone 
for  gold  to  Alaska,  and  worked  in  the  lumber  camps  of  the 
Pacific  Northwest.  But  he  could  not  escape,  he  said.  In  a  short 
time  he  was  no  longer  "surprised."  His  account  of  his  travels, 
while  fragmentary,  had  a  peculiar  vividness.  He  saw  what  he 
described,  and  he  saw  it  so  plainly  that  his  mind  ran  off  into 
curious  details  that  made  his  words  strike  sometimes  like  flashes 
of  lightning.  A  strange  and  wonderful  mind — uncontrolled.  How 
that  man  needed  the  discipline  of  common  work! 

I  have  rarely  Hstened  to  a  story  with  such  rapt  interest.  It  was 
not  only  what  he  said,  nor  how  he  said  it,  but  how  he  let  me  see 
the  strange  workings  of  his  mind.  It  was  continuously  a  story 
of  a  story.  When  his  voice  finally  died  down  I  drew  a  long 
breath  and  was  astonished  to  perceive  that  it  was  nearly  mid- 
night— and  Harriet  speechless  with  her  emotions.  For  a  moment 
he  sat  quiet  and  then  burst  out: 

"I  cannot  get  away:  I  cannot  escape,",  and  the  veritable  look 
of  some  trapped  creature  came  into  his  eyes,  fear  so  abject  that 
I  reached  over  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm: 

"Friend,"  I  said,  "stop  here.  We  have  a  good  country.  You 
have  travelled  far  enough.  I  know  from  experience  what  a 
cornfield  will  do  for  a  man." 

"I  have  lived  all  sorts  of  life,"  he  continued  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  a  word  I  said,  "and  I  have  lived  it  all  twice,  and  I  am 
afraid." 

"Face  it,"  I  said,  gripping  his  arm,  longing  for  some  power 
to  "blow  grit  into  him." 

"Face  it!"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  you  suppose  I  have  tried.  If  I 
could  do  a  thing — anything— a  few  times  without  thinking — 
once  would  be  enough— I  might  be  all  right.  I  should  be  all 
right." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  89 

He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
resolution  in  his  voice.  I  moved  my  chair  nearer  to  him,  feeling 
as  though  I  were  saving  an  immortal  soul  from  destruction.  I 
told  him  of  our  life,  how  the  quiet  and  the  work  of  it  would 
solve  his  problems.  I  sketched  with  enthusiasm  my  own  experi- 
ence and  I  planned  swiftly  how  he  could  live,  absorbed  in  simple 
work — and  in  books. 

"Try  it,"  I  said  eagerly. 

"I  will,"  he  said,  rising  from  the  table,  and  grasping  my  hand. 
"I'll  stay  here." 

I  had  a  peculiar  thrill  of  exultation  and  triumph.  I  know  how 
the  priest  must  feel,  having  won  a  soul  from  torment! 

He  was  trembling  with  excitement  and  pale  with  emotion 
and  weariness.  One  must  begin  the  quiet  life  with  rest.  So  I 
got  him  off  to  bed,  first  pouring  him  a  bathtub  of  warm  water. 
I  laid  out  clean  clothes  by  his  bedside  and  took  away  his  old 
ones,  talking  to  him  cheerfully  all  the  time  about  common  things. 
When  I  finally  left  him  and  came  downstairs  I  found  Harriet 
standing  with  frightened  eyes  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen. 

"I'm  afraid  to  have  him  sleep  in  this  house,"  she  said. 

But  I  reassured  her.  "You  do  not  understand,"  I  said. 

Owing  to  the  excitement  of  the  evening  I  spent  a  restless 
night.  Before  daylight,  while  I  was  dreaming  a  strange  dream  of 
two  men  running,  the  one  who  pursued  being  the  exact  counter- 
part of  the  one  who  fled,  I  heard  my  name  called  aloud: 

"David,  David!" 

I  sprang  out  of  bed. 

"The  tramp  has  gone,"  called  Harriet. 

He  had  not  even  slept  in  his  bed.  He  had  raised  the  window, 
dropped  out  on  the  ground  and  vanished. 


THE  INFIDEL 


I 


FIND  THAT  WE  HAVE  an  infidel  in  this  community.  I  don't  know 
that  I  should  set  down  the  fact  here  on  good  white  paper;  the 
walls,  they  say,  have  eyes,  the  stones  have  ears.  But  consider 
these  words  written  in  bated  breath!  The  worst  of  it  is — I 
gather  from  common  report — this  infidel  is  a  Cheerful  Infidel, 
whereas  a  true  infidel  should  bear  upon  his  face  the  living  mark 
of  his  infamy.  We  are  all  tolerant  enough  of  those  who  do  not 
agree  with  us,  provided  only  they  are  sufficiently  miserable!  I 
confess  when  I  first  heard  of  him — through  Mrs.  Horace  (with 
shudders) — I  was  possessed  of  a  consuming  secret  desire  to 
see  him.  I  even  thought  of  climbing  a  tree  somewhere  along  the 
public  road— like  Zaccheus,  wasn't  it?— and  watching  him  go 
by.  If  by  any  chance  he  should  look  my  way  I  could  easily  avoid 
discovery  by  crouching  among  the  leaves.  It  shows  how  pleasant 
must  be  the  paths  of  unrighteousness  that  we  are  tempted  to 
climb  trees  to  see  those  who  walk  therein.  My  imagination 
busied  itself  with  the  infidel.  I  pictured  him  as  a  sort  of  Moloch 

90 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  91 

treading  our  pleasant  countryside,  flames  and  smoke  proceeding 
from  his  nostrils,  his  feet  striking  fire,  his  voice  like  the  sound 
of  a  great  wind.  At  least  that  was  the  picture  I  formed  of  him 
from  common  report. 

And  yesterday  afternoon  I  met  the  infidel  and  I  must  here 
set  down  a  true  account  of  the  adventure.  It  is,  surely,  a  little 
new  door  opened  in  the  house  of  my  understanding.  I  might 
travel  a  whole  year  in  a  city,  brushing  men's  elbows,  and  not 
once  have  such  an  experience.  In  country  spaces  men  develop 
sensitive  surfaces,  not  calloused  by  too  frequent  contact,  accept- 
ing the  new  impression  vividly  and  keeping  it  bright  to  think 
upon. 

I  met  the  infidel  as  the  result  of  a  rather  unexpected  series  of 
incidents.  I  don't  think  I  have  said  before  that  we  have  for  some 
time  been  expecting  a  great  event  on  this  farm.  We  have  raised 
corn  and  buckwheat,  we  have  a  fertile  asparagus  bed  and  onions 
and  pie-plant  (enough  to  supply  the  entire  population  of  this 
community)  and  I  can't  tell  how  many  other  vegetables.  We  have 
had  plenty  of  chickens  hatched  out  (I  don't  like  chickens,  espe- 
cially hens,  especially  a  certain  gaunt  and  predatory  hen  named 
[so  Harriet  says]  Evangeline,  who  belongs  to  a  neighbour  of 
ours)  and  we  have  had  two  litters  of  pigs,  but  until  this  bright 
moment  of  expectancy  we  never  have  had  a  calf. 

Upon  the  advice  of  Horace,  which  I  often  lean  upon  as  upon 
a  staff,  I  have  been  keeping  my  young  heifer  shut  up  in  the 
cow-yard  now  for  a  week  or  two.  But  yesterday,  toward  the  mid- 
dle of  the  afternoon,  I  found  the  fence  broken  down  and  the 
cow-yard  empty.  From  what  Harriet  said,  the  brown  cow  must 
have  been  gone  since  early  morning.  I  knew,  of  course,  what  that 
meant,  and  straightway  I  took  a  stout  stick  and  set  off  over  the 
hill,  tracing  the  brown  cow  as  far  as  I  could  by  her  tracks.  She 
had  made  way  toward  a  clump  of  trees  near  Horace's  wood  lot, 
where  I  confidently  expected  to  find  her.  But  as  fate  would  have 
it,  the  pasture  gate,  which  is  rarely  used,  stood  open  and  the 
tracks  led  outward  into  an  old  road.  I  followed  rapidly,  half 
pleased  that  I  had  not  found  her  within  the  wood.  It  was  a 
promise  of  new  adventure  which  I  came  to  with  downright  en- 


92  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

joyment  (confidentially — ^I  should  have  been  cultivating  corn!). 
I  peered  into  every  thicket  as  I  passed:  once  I  climbed  an  old 
fence  and,  standing  on  the  top  rail,  intently  surveyed  my  neigh- 
bour's pasture.  No  brown  cow  was  to  be  seen.  At  the  crossing 
of  the  brook  I  shouldered  my  way  from  the  road  down  a  path 
among  the  alders,  thinking  the  brown  cow  might  have  gone  that 
way  to  obscurity. 

It  is  curious  how,  in  spite  of  domestication  and  training,  Na- 
ture in  her  great  moments  returns  to  the  primitive  and  instinc- 
tive! My  brown  cow,  never  having  had  anything  but  the  kindest 
treatment,  is  as  gentle  an  animal  as  could  be  imagined,  but  she 
had  followed  the  nameless,  ages-old  law  of  her  breed:  she  had 
escaped  in  her  great  moment  to  the  most  secret  place  she 
knew.  It  did  not  matter  that  she  would  have  been  safer  in  my 
yard—both  she  and  her  calf— that  she  would  have  been  surer 
of  her  food;  she  could  only  obey  the  old  wild  law.  So  turkeys 
will  hide  their  nests.  So  the  tame  duck,  tame  for  unnumbered 
generations,  hearing  from  afar  the  shrill  cry  of  the  wild  drake, 
will  desert  her  quiet  surroundings,  spread  her  little-used  wings 
and  become  for  a  time  the  wildest  of  the  wild. 

So  we  think — ^you  and  I — that  we  are  civiHsed!  But  how  often, 
how  often,  have  we  felt  that  old  wildness  which  is  our  common 
heritage,  scarce  shackled,  clamouring  in  our  blood! 

I  stood  listening  among  the  alders,  in  the  deep  cool  shade. 
Here  and  there  a  ray  of  sunshine  came  through  the  thick 
foHage:  I  could  see  it  where  it  silvered  the  cobweb  ladders  of 
those  moist  spaces.  Somewhere  in  the  thicket  I  heard  an  un- 
alarmed  catbird  triUing  her  exquisite  song,  a  startled  frog  leaped 
with  a  splash  into  the  water;  faint  odours  of  some  blossoming 
growth,  not  distinguishable,  filled  the  still  air.  It  was  one  of 
those  rare  moments  when  one  seems  to  have  caught  Nature  un- 
aware. I  lingered  a  full  minute,  listening,  looking;  but  my  brown 
cow  had  not  gone  that  way.  So  I  turned  and  went  up  rapidly  to 
the  road,  and  there  I  found  myself  almost  face  to  face  with  a 
ruddy  Httle  man  whose  countenance  bore  a  look  of  round  as- 
tonishment.  We  were  both  surprised.  I  recovered  first. 

"Have  you  seen  a  brown  cow?"  I  asked. 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  93 

He  was  still  so  astonished  that  he  began  to  look  around  him;, 
he  thrust  his  hands  nervously  into  his  coat  pockets  and  pulled 
them  out  again. 

"I  think  you  won't  find  her  in  there,"  I  said,  seeking  to  relieve 
his  embarrassment. 

But  I  didn't  know,  then,  how  very  serious  a  person  I  had  en- 
countered. 

"No — no,"  he  stammered,  "I  haven't  seen  your  cow." 

So  I  explained  to  him  with  sobriety,  and  at  some  length,  the 
problem  I  had  to  solve.  He  was  greatly  interested  and  in&smuch 
as  he  was  going  my  way  he  offered  at  once  to  assist  me  in  my 
search.  So  we  set  off  together.  He  was  rather  stocky  o£  build,  and 
decidedly  short  of  breath,  so  that  I  regulated  my  customary 
stride  to  suit  his  deliberation.  At  first,  being  filled  with  the 
spirit  of  my  adventure,  I  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  this 
arrangement.  Our  conversation  ran  something  like  this: 

Stranger:  Has  she  any  spots  or  marks  on  her? 

Myself:  No,  she  is  plain  brown. 

Stranger:  How  old  a  cow  is  she? 

Myself:  This  is  her  first  calf. 

Stranger:  Valuable  animal? 

Myself  (fencing) :  I  have  never  put  a  price  on  her;  she  is  a 
promising  young  heifer. 

Stranger:  Pure  blood? 

Myself  :  No,  grade. 

After  a  pause : 

Stranger:  Live  around  here? 

Myself:  Yes,  half  a  mile  below  here.  Do  you? 

Stranger:  Yes,  three  miles  above  here.  My  name's  Purdy. 

Myself:  Mine  is  Grayson. 

He  turned  to  me  solemnly  and  held  out  his  hand.  "I'm  glad 
to  meet  you,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he  said.  "And  I'm  glad,"  I  said,  "to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Purdy." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  put  down  all  we  said :  I  couldn't.  But  by 
such  devices  is  the  truth  in  the  country  made  manifest. 

So  we  continued  to  walk  and  look.  Occasionally  I  would  un- 
consciously increase  my  pace  until  I  was  warned  to  desist  by 


94  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

the  puffing  of  Mr.  Purdy.  He  gave  an  essential  impression  of 
genial  timidity:  and  how  he  did  love  to  talk! 

We  came  at  last  to  a  rough  bit  of  land  grown  up  to  scrubby 
oaks  and  hazel  brush. 

"This,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  "looks  hopeful." 

We  followed  the  old  road,  examining  every  bare  spot  of 
earth  for  some  evidence  of  the  cow's  tracks,  but  without  finding 
so  much  as  a  sign.  I  was  for  pushing  onward  but  Mr.  Purdy 
insisted  that  this  clump  of  woods  was  exactly  such  a  place  as  a 
cow  would  like.  He  developed  such  a  capacity  for  argumentation 
and  seemed  so  sure  of  what  he  was  talking  about  that  I  yielded, 
and  we  entered  the  wood. 

"We'll  part  here,"  he  said:  "you  keep  over  there  about  fifty 
yards  and  I'll  go  straight  ahead.  In  that  way  we'll  cover  the 
ground.  Keep  a-shoutin\" 

So  we  started  and  I  kept  a-shoutin*.  He  would  answer  from 
time  to  time:  "Hulloo,  hulloo!" 

It  was  a  wild  and  beautful  bit  of  forest.  The  ground  under 
the  trees  was  thickly  covered  with  enormous  ferns  or  bracken, 
with  here  and  there  patches  of  light  where  the  sun  came  through 
the  foUage.  The  low  spots  were  filled  with  the  coarse  green 
verdure  of  skunk  cabbage.  I  was  so  sceptical  about  finding  the 
cow  in  a  wood  where  concealment  was  so  easy  that  I  confess  I 
rather  idled  and  enjoyed  the  surroundings.  Suddenly,  however, 
J  heard  Mr.  Purdy's  voice,  with  a  new  note  in  it: 

"Hulloo,  hulloo " 

"What  luck?" 

"Hulloo,  hulloo- 


Tm  coming — "  and  I  turned  and  ran  as  rapidly  as  I  could 
through  the  trees,  jumping  over  logs  and  dodging  low 
branches,  wondering  what  new  thing  my  friend  had  discovered. 
So  I  came  to  his  side. 

"Have  you  got  trace  of  her?"  I  questioned  eagerly. 

"Sh!"  he  said,  "over  there.  Don't  you  see  her?" 

"Where,  where?" 

He  pointed,  but  for  a  moment  I  could  see  nothing  but  the 
trees  and  the  bracken.  Then  all  at  once,  Hke  the  puzzle  in  a  pic- 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  95 

ture,  I  saw  her  plainly.  She  was  standing  perfectly  motionless, 
her  head  lowered,  and  in  such  a  peculiar  clump  o£  bushes  and 
ferns  that  she  was  all  but  indistinguishable.  It  was  wonderful, 
the  perfection  with  which  her  instinct  had  led  her  to  conceal 
herself. 

All  excitement,  I  started  toward  her  at  once.  But  Mr.  Purdy 
put  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  "don't  frighten  her.  She  has  her  calf  there." 

"No!"  I  exclaimed,  for  I  could  see  nothing  of  it. 

We  went,  cautiously,  a  few  steps  nearer.  She  threw  up  her 
head  and  looked  at  us  so  wildly  for  a  moment  that  I  should 
hardly  have  known  her  for  my  cow.  She  was,  indeed,  for  the 
time  being,  a  wild  creature  of  the  wood.  She  made  a  low  sound 
and  advanced  a  step  threateningly. 

"Steady,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  "this  is  her  first  calf.  Stop  a  minute 
and  keep  quiet.  She'll  soon  get  used  to  us." 

Moving  to  one  side  cautiously,  we  sat  down  on  an  old  log. 
The  brown  heifer  paused,  every  muscle  tense,  her  eyes  literally 
blazing.  We  sat  perfectly  still.  After  a  minute  or  two  she  lowered 
her  head,  and  with  curious  guttural  sounds  she  began  to  Uck 
her  calf,  which  lay  quite  hidden  in  the  bracken. 

"She  has  chosen  a  perfect  spot,"  I  thought  to  myself,  for  it 
was  the  wildest  bit  of  forest  I  had  seen  anywhere  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood. At  one  side,  not  far  ofif,  rose  a  huge  gray  rock,  partly 
covered  on  one  side  with  moss,  and  round  about  were  oaks 
and  a  few  ash  trees  of  a  poor  scrubby  sort  (else  they  would 
long  ago  have  been  cut  out).  The  earth  underneath  was  soft  and 
springy  with  leaf  mould. 

Mr.  Purdy  was  one  to  whom  silence  was  painful;  he  fidgeted 
about,  evidently  bursting  with  talk,  and  yet  feeHng  compelled  to 
follow  his  own  injunction  of  silence.  Presently  he  reached  into 
his  capacious  pocket  and  handed  me  a  little  paper-covered  book- 
let. I  took  it,  curious,  and  read  the  title : 

"Is  There  a  Hell?" 

It  struck  me  humorously.  In  the  country  we  are  always — at 
least  some  of  us  are — more  or  less  in  a  religious  ferment.  The 
city  may  distract  itself  to  the  point  where  faith  is  unnecessary; 


96  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

but  in  the  country  we  must,  perforce,  have  something  to  believe 
in.  And  we  talk  about  it,  too!  I  read  the  title  aloud,  but  in  a 
low  voice: 

"Is  There  a  Hell?"  Then  I  asked:  "Do  you  really  want  to 
know?" 

"The  argument  is  all  there,"  he  replied. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  can  tell  you  off-hand,  out  of  my  own  experi- 
ence, that  there  certainly  is  a  hell " 

He  turned  toward  me  with  evident  astonishment,  but  I  pro- 
ceeded with  tranquillity: 

"Yes,  sir,  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  I've  been  near  enough  my- 
self several  times  to  smell  the  smoke.  It  isn't  around  here,"  I 
said. 

As  he  looked  at  me  his  china-blue  eyes  grew  larger,  if  that 
were  possible,  and  his  serious,  gentle  face  took  on  a  look  of 
pained  surprise. 

"Before  you  say  such  things,"  he  said,  "I  beg  you  to  read  my 
book." 

He  took  the  tract  from  my  hands  and  opened  it  on  his  knee. 

"The  Bible  tells  us,"  he  said,  "that  in  the  beginning  God  cre- 
ated the  heavens  and  the  earth.  He  made  the  firmament  and 
divided  the  waters.  But  does  the  Bible  say  that  He  created  a 
hell  or  a  devil?  Does  it?'* 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  then!"  he  said  triumphantly,  "and  that  isn't  all,  either. 
The  historian  Moses  gives  in  detail  a  full  account  of  what  was 
made  in  six  days.  He  tells  how  day  and  night  were  created,  how 
the  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  were  made;  he  tells  how 
God  created  the  flowers  of  the  field,  and  the  insects,  and  the 
birds,  and  the  great  whales,  and  said,  'Be  fruitful  and  multiply.' 
He  accounts  for  every  minute  of  the  time  in  the  entire  six  days 
— and  of  course  God  rested  on  the  seventh — and  there  is  not 
one  word  about  hell.  Is  there?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Well  then—"  exultantly,  "where  is  it?  I'd  like  to  have  any 
man,  no  matter  how  wise  he  is,  answer  that.  Where  is  it?" 

"That,"  I  said,  "has  troubled  me,  too.  We  don't  always  know 


*He  reached  into  his  pocket  and  handed  me  a  little 
paper-covered   booklet" 


97 


98  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

just  where  our  hells  are.  I£  we  did  we  might  avoid  them.  We  arc 
not  so  sensitive  to  them  as  we  should  be — do  you  think?" 

He  looked  at  me  intently:  I  went  on  before  he  could  answer: 

"Why,  I've  seen  men  in  my  time  living  from  day  to  day  in 
the  very  atmosphere  of  perpetual  torment,  and  actually  arguing 
that  there  was  no  hell.  It  is  a  strange  sight,  I  assure  you,  and  one 
that  will  trouble  you  afterwards.  From  what  I  know  of  hell, 
it  is  a  place  of  very  loose  boundaries.  Sometimes  I've  thought  we 
couldn't  be  quite  sure  when  we  were  in  it  and  when  we  were 
not." 

I  did  not  tell  my  friend,  but  I  was  thinking  of  the  remark  of 
old  Swedenborg:  "The  trouble  with  hell  is  we  shall  not  know 
it  when  we  arrive." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Purdy  burst  out  again,  having  opened  his 
little  book  at  another  page. 

"When  Adam  and  Eve  had  sinned,"  he  said,  "and  the  God 
of  Heaven  walked  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and 
called  for  them  and  they  had  hidden  themselves  on  account  of 
their  disobedience,  did  God  say  to  them:  Unless  you  repent  of 
your  sins  and  get  forgiveness  I  will  shut  you  up  in  yon  dark  and 
dismal  hell  and  torment  you  (or  have  the  devil  do  it)  for  ever 
and  ever?  Was  there  such  a  word?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  vehemently,  "there  was  not." 

"But  does  it  say,"  I  asked,  "that  Adam  and  Eve  had  not  them- 
selves been  using  their  best  wits  in  creating  a  hell?  That  point 
has  occurred  to  me.  In  my  experience  I've  known  both  Adams 
and  Eves  who  were  most  adroit  in  their  capacity  for  making 
places  of  torment — and  afterwards  of  getting  into  them.  Just 
watch  yourself  some  day  after  you've  sown  a  crop  of  desires 
and  you'll  see  promising  little  hells  starting  up  within  you  like 
pigweeds  and  pusley  after  a  warm  rain  in  your  garden.  And 
our  heavens,  too,  for  that  matter — they  grow  to  our  own  plant- 
ing: and  how  sensitive  they  are  too!  How  soon  the  hot  wind  of 
a  passion  withers  them  away!  How  surely  the  fires  of  selfishness 
blacken  their  perfection!" 

I'd  almost  forgotten  Mr.  Purdy — and  when  I  looked  around, 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  99 

his  face  wore  a  peculiar  puzzled  expression  not  unmixed  with 
alarm.  He  held  up  his  little  book  eagerly,  almost  in  my  face. 

"If  God  had  intended  to  create  a  hell,"  he  said,  "I  assert 
without  fear  of  successful  contradiction  that  when  God  was 
there  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  it  was  the  time  for  Him  to  have 
put  Adam  and  Eve  and  all  their  posterity  on  notice  that  there 
was  a  place  of  everlasting  torment.  It  would  have  been  only  a 
square  deal  for  Him  to  do  so.  But  did  He?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"He  did  not.  If  He  had  mentioned  hell  on  that  occasion  I 
should  not  now  dispute  its  existence.  But  He  did  not.  This  is 
what  He  said  to  Adam — the  very  words:  'In  the  sweat  of  thy 
face  shalt  thou  eat  bread,  till  thou  return  unto  the  ground:  for 
out  of  it  thou  wast  taken:  for  dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt 
thou  return.'  You  see  He  did  not  say  'Unto  hell  shalt  thou 
return.'  He  said,  'Unto  dust.'  That  isn't  hell,  is  it?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  are  in  my  experience  a  great  many  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  hells.  There  are  almost  as  many  kinds  of  hells 
as  there  are  men  and  women  upon  this  earth.  Now,  your  hell 
wouldn't  terrify  me  in  the  least.  My  own  makes  me  no  end  of 
trouble.  Talk  about  burning  pitch  and  brimstone:  how  futile 
were  the  imaginations  of  the  old  fellows  who  conjured  up  such 
puerile  torments.  Why,  I  can  tell  you  of  no  end  of  hells  that 
are  worse — and  not  half  try.  Once  I  remember,  when  1  was 
younger " 

I  happened  to  glance  around  at  my  companion.  He  sat  there 
looking  at  me  with  horror — fascinated  horror. 

"Well,  I  won't  disturb  your  peace  of  mind  by  telling  that 
story,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  beheve  that  we  shall  go  to  hell?"  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

"That  depends,"  I  said.  "Let's  leave  out  the  question  of  'we'; 
let's  be  more  comfortably  general  in  our  discussion.  I  think  we 
can  safely  say  that  some  go  and  some  do  not.  It's  a  curious  and 
noteworthy  thing,"  I  said,  "but  I've  known  of  cases —  There  are 
some  people  who  aren't  really  worth  good  honest  tormenting — 
let  alone  the  rewards  of  heavenly  bliss.  They  just  haven't  any- 


100  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

thing  to  torment!  What  is  going  to  become  of  such  folks?  I  con- 
fess I  don't  know.  You  remember  when  Dante  began  his  journey 
into  the  infernal  regions " 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  that  Dante,"  he  interrupted  ex- 
citedly; "it's  all  a  made  up  story.  There  isn't  a  word  of  truth 
in  it;  it  is  a  blasphemous  book.  Let  me  read  you  what  I  say 
about  it  in  here." 

h  "I  will  agree  with  you  without  argument,"  I  said,  "that  it  is 
not  all  true.  I  merely  wanted  to  speak  of  one  of  Dante's  experi- 
ences as  an  illustration  of  the  point  I'm  making.  You  remember 
that  almost  the  first  spirits  he  met  on  his  journey  were  those  who 
had  never  done  anything  in  this  life  to  merit  either  heaven  or 
hell.  That  always  struck  me  as  being  about  the  worst  plight 
imaginable  for  a  human  being.  Think  of  a  creature  not  even 
worth  good  honest  brimstone!" 

Since  I  came  home,  I've  looked  up  the  passage;  and  it  is  a 
wonderful  one.  Dante  heard  waiUngs  and  groans  and  terrible 
things  said  in  many  tongues.  Yet  these  were  not  the  souls  of  the 
wicked.  They  were  only  those  "who  had  lived  without  praise 
or  blame,  thinking  of  nothing  but  themselves."  "Heaven  would 
not  dull  its  brightness  with  those,  nor  would  lower  hell  receive 
them." 

"And  what  is  it,"  asked  Dante,  "that  makes  them  so  grievously 
suffer.?" 

"Hopelessness  of  death,"  said  Virgil.  "Their  blind  existence 
here,  and  immemorable  former  life,  make  them  so  wretched 
that  they  envy  every  other  lot.  Mercy  and  Justice  alike  disdain 
them.  Let  us  speak  of  them  no  more.  Look,  and  pass!" 

But  Mr.  Purdy,  in  spite  of  his  timidity,  was  a  man  of  much 
persistence. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "when  they  try  to  prove  the  reason- 
ableness of  hell,  that  unless  you  show  sinners  how  they're  goin' 
to  be  tormented,  they'd  never  repent.  Now,  I  say  that  if  a 
man  has  to  be  scared  into  religion,  his  religion  ain't  much  good." 

"There,"  I  said,  "I  agree  with  you  completely." 

His  face  lighted  up,  and  he  continued  eagerly : 

"And  I  tell  'em:  You  just  go  ahead  and  try  for  heaven;  don't 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  101 

pay  any  attention  to  all  this  talk  about  everlasting  punishment." 

"Good  advice!"  I  said. 

It  had  begun  to  grow  dark.  The  brown  cow  was  quiet  at 
last.  We  could  hear  small  faint  sounds  from  the  calf.  I  started 
slowly  through  the  bracken.  Mr.  Purdy  hung  at  my  elbow^ 
stumbHng  sideways  as  he  walked,  but  continuing  to  talk 
eagerly.  So  we  came  to  the  place  where  the  calf  lay.  I  spoke  in 
a  low  voice  : 

"So  boss,  so  boss." 


I  would  have  laid  my  hand  on  her  neck  but  she  started  back 
with  a  wild  toss  of  her  horns.  It  was  a  beautiful  calf!  I  looked  at 
it  with  a  pecuUar  feeling  of  exultation,  pride,  ownership.  It  was 
red-brown,  with  a  round  curly  pate  and  one  white  leg.  As  it  lay 
curled  there  among  the  ferns,  it  was  really  beautiful  to  look  at. 
When  we  approached,  it  did  not  so  much  as  stir.  I  lifted  it  to 
its  legs,  upon  which  the  cow  uttered  a  strange  half-wild  cry 
and  ran  a  few  steps  ofiF,  her  head  thrown  in  the  air.  The  calf 
fell  back  as  though  it  had  no  legs. 

"She  is  telling  it  not  to  stand  up,"  said  Mr.  Purdy. 

I  had  been  afraid  at  first  that  something  was  the  matter! 

"Some  are  like  that,"  he  said.  "Some  call  their  calves  to  run. 


102  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Others  won't  let  you  come  near  'em  at  all;  and  I've  even  known 
of  a  case  where  a  cow  gored  its  calf  to  death  rather  than  let 
anyone  touch  it." 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Piirdy  not  without  a  feeHng  of  admiration. 
This  was  a  thing  he  knew:  a  language  not  taught  in  the  uni- 
versities. How  well  it  became  him  to  know  it;  how  simply  he 
expressed  it!  I  thought  to  myself:  There  are  not  many  men  in 
this  world,  after  all,  that  it  will  not  pay  us  to  go  to  school  to — 
for  something  or  other. 

I  should  never  have  been  able,  indeed,  to  get  the  cow  and  calf 
home,  last  night  at  least,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  chance  friend. 
He  knew  exactly  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  He  wore  a  stout 
coat  of  denim,  rather  long  in  the  skirts.  This  he  slipped  off,  while 
I  looked  on  in  some  astonishment,  and  spread  it  out  on  the 
ground.  He  placed  my  staff  under  one  side  of  it  and  found  an- 
other stick  nearly  the  same  size  for  the  other  side.  These  he 
wound  into  the  coat  until  he  had  made  a  sort  of  stretcher.  Upon 
this  we  placed  the  unresisting  calf.  What  a  fine  one  it  was! 
Then,  he  in  front  and  I  behind,  we  carried  the  stretcher  and  its 
burden  out  of  the  wood.  The  cow  followed,  sometimes  threaten- 
ing, sometimes  bellowing,  sometimes  starting  off  wildly,  head 
and  tail  in  the  air,  only  to  rush  back  and,  venturing  up  with 
trembling  muscles,  touch  her  tongue  to  the  calf,  uttering  low 
maternal  sounds. 

"Keep  steady,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  "and  everything'll  be  all 
right." 

When  we  came  to  the  brook  we  stopped  to  rest.  I  think  my 
companion  would  have  liked  to  start  his  argument  again,  but 
he  was  too  short  of  breath. 

It  was  a  prime  spring  evening!  The  frogs  were  tuning  up.  I 
heard  a  drowsy  cowbell  somewhere  over  the  hills  in  the  pas- 
ture. The  brown  cow,  with  eager,  outstretched  neck,  was  licking 
her  calf  as  it  lay  there  on  the  improvised  stretcher.  I  looked 
up  at  the  sky,  a  blue  avenue  of  heaven  between  the  tree  tops;  I 
felt  the  peculiar  sense  of  mystery  which  nature  so  commonly 
conveys. 

"I  have  been  too  sure!"  I  said.  "What  do  we  know  after  all! 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  103 

Why  may  there  not  be  future  heavens  and  hells — 'other  heavens 
for  other  earths'?  We  do  not  know — we  do  not  ]{now " 

So,  carrying  the  calf,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  we  came  at 
last  to  my  yard.  We  had  no  sooner  put  the  calf  down  than  it 
jumped  nimbly  to  its  feet  and  ran,  wobbling  absurdly,  to  meet 
its  mother. 

"The  rascal,"  I  said,  "after  all  our  work." 

"It's  the  nature  of  the  animal,"  said  Mr.  Purdy,  as  he  put  on 
his  coat. 

I  could  not  thank  him  enough.  I  invited  him  to  stay  with  us 
to  supper,  but  he  said  he  must  hurry  home. 

''Then  come  down  soon  to  see  me,"  I  said,  "and  we  will  settle 
this  question  as  to  the  existence  of  a  hell." 

He  stepped  up  close  to  me  and  said,  with  an  appeaUng  note 
in  his  voice : 

"You  do  not  really  believe  in  a  hell,  do  you?" 

How  human  nature  loves  conclusiveness :  nothing  short  of  the 
categorical  will  satisfy  us!  What  I  said  to  Mr.  Purdy  evidently 
appeased  him,  for  he  seized  my  hand  and  shook  and  shook. 

"We  haven't  understood  each  other,"  he  said  eagerly.  "You 
don't  beheve  in  eternal  damnation  any  more  than  I  do."  Then  he 
added,  as  though  some  new  uncertainty  puzzled  him,  "Do  you?" 

At  supper  I  was  telling  Harriet  with  gusto  of  my  experiences. 
Suddenly  she  broke  out: 

"What  was  his  name?" 

"Purdy." 

"Why,  he's  the  infidel  that  Mrs.  Horace  tells  about!" 

"Is  that  possible?"  I  said,  and  I  dropped  my  knife  and  fork. 
The  strangest  sensation  came  over  me. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "then  I'm  an  infidel  too!" 

So  I  laughed  and  I've  been  laughing  gloriously  ever  since — at 
myself,  at  the  infidel,  at  the  entire  neighbourhood.  I  recalled 
that  delightful  character  in  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  (my  friend 
the  Scotch  Preacher  loves  to  tell  about  him),  who  seasons  error 
by  crying  out  "Fudge!" 

"Fudge!"  I  said. 

We're  all  poor  sinners! 


XI 

THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR 


Wh 


Sunday  afternoon,  June  g. 


E  HAD  A  FUNERAL  TODAY  in  this  Community  and  the  longest 
funeral  procession,  Charles  Baxter  says,  he  has  seen  in  all  the 
years  o£  his  memory  among  these  hills.  A  good  man  has  gone 
away — and  yet  remains.  In  the  comparatively  short  time  I  have 
been  here  I  never  came  to  know  him  well  personally,  though  I 
saw  him  often  in  the  country  roads,  a  ruddy  old  gentleman 
with  thick,  coarse,  iron-gray  hair,  somewhat  stern  of  counte- 
nance, somewhat  shabby  of  attire,  sitting  as  erect  as  a  trooper  in 
his  open  buggy,  one  muscular  hand  resting  on  his  knee,  the 
other  holding  the  reins  of  his  familiar  old  white  horse.  I  said  I 
did  not  come  to  know  him  well  personally,  and  yet  no  one  who 
knows  this  community  can  help  knowing  Doctor  John  North. 
I  never  so  desired  the  gift  of  moving  expression  as  I  do  at  this 
moment,  on  my  return  from  his  funeral,  that  I  may  give  some 
faint  idea  of  what  a  good  man  means  to  a  community  like  ours 
— as  the  more  complete  knowledge  of  it  has  come  to  me  to-day. 

104 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  105 

In  the  district  school  that  I  attended  when  a  boy  we  used  to 
love  to  leave  our  mark,  as  we  called  it,  wherever  our  rovings  led 
us.  It  was  a  bit  of  boyish  mysticism,  unaccountable  now  that  we 
have  grown  older  and  wiser  (perhaps) ;  but  it  had  its  meaning. 
It  was  an  instinctive  outreaching  of  the  young  soul  to  perpetu- 
ate the  knowledge  of  its  existence  upon  this  forgetful  earth.  My 
mark,  I  remember,  was  a  notch  and  a  cross.  With  what  secret 
fond  diligence  I  carved  it  in  the  gray  bark  of  beech  trees,  on 
fence  posts,  or  on  barn  doors,  and  once,  I  remember,  on  the 
roof-ridge  of  our  home,  and  once,  with  high  imaginings  of  how 
long  it  would  remain,  I  spent  hours  chiseling  it  deep  in  a  hard- 
headed  old  boulder  in  the  pasture,  where,  if  man  has  been  as 
kind  as  Nature,  it  remains  to  this  day.  If  you  should  chance  to 
see  it  you  would  not  know  of  the  boy  who  carved  it  there. 

So  Doctor  North  left  his  secret  mark  upon  the  neighbourhood 
— as  all  of  us  do,  for  good  or  for  ill,  upon  our  neighbourhoods,  in 
accordance  with  the  strength  of  that  character  which  abides 
within  us.  For  a  long  time  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  he,  though 
it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  some  strong  good  man  had  often 
passed  this  way.  I  saw  the  mystic  sign  of  him  deep-lettered  in 
the  hearthstone  of  a  home;  I  heard  it  speaking  bravely  from  the 
weak  lips  of  a  friend;  it  is  carved  in  the  plastic  heart  of  many  a 
boy.  No,  I  do  not  doubt  the  immortalities  of  the  soul;  in  this 
community,  which  I  have  come  to  love  so  much,  dwells  more 
than  one  of  John  North*s  immortalities— and  will  continue  to 
dwell.  I,  too,  live  more  deeply  because  John  North  was  here. 

He  was  in  no  outward  way  an  extraordinary  man,  nor  was  his 
life  eventful.  He  was  born  in  this  neighbourhood:  I  saw  him 
lying  quite  still  this  morning  in  the  same  sunny  room  of  the  same 
house  where  he  first  saw  the  light  of  day.  Here  among  these  com- 
mon hills  he  grew  up,  and  save  for  the  few  years  he  spent  at 
school  or  in  the  army,  he  lived  here  all  his  life  long.  In  old  neigh- 
bourhoods and  especially  farm  neighbourhoods  people  come  to 
know  one  another — not  clothes  knowledge,  or  money  knowl- 
edge— ^but  that  sort  of  knowledge  which  reaches  down  into  the 
hidden  springs  of  human  character.  A  country  community  may 
be  deceived  by  a  stranger,  too  easily  deceived,  but  not  by  one 


106  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

of  its  own  people.  For  it  is  not  a  studied  knowledge ;  it  resembles 
that  slow  geologic  uncovering  before  which  not  even  the  deep 
buried  bones  of  the  prehistoric  saurian  remain  finally  hidden. 

I  never  fully  realised  until  this  morning  what  a  supreme  tri- 
umph it  is,  having  grown  old,  to  merit  the  respect  of  those  who 
know  us  best.  Mere  greatness  offers  no  reward '  to  compare 
with  it,  for  greatness  compels  that  homage  which  we  freely 
bestow  upon  goodness.  So  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  forget  this 
morning.  I  stood  in  the  door-yard  outside  of  the  open  window 
of  the  old  doctor's  home.  It  was  soft,  and  warm,  and  very  still — 
a  June  Sunday  morning.  An  apple  tree  not  far  off  was  still  in 
blossom,  and  across  the  road  on  a  grassy  hillside  sheep  fed  un- 
concernedly. Occasionally,  from  the  roadway  where  the  horses 
of  the  countryside  were  waiting,  I  heard  the  clink  of  a  bit-ring 
or  the  low  voice  of  some  new-comer  seeking  a  place  to  hitch. 
Not  half  those  who  came  could  find  room  in  the  house:  they 
stood  uncovered  among  the  trees.  From  within,  wafted  through 
the  window,  came  the  faint  odour  of  flowers,  and  the  occasional 
minor  intonation  of  someone  speaking — and  finally  our  own 
Scotch  Preacher!  I  could  not  see  him,  but  there  lay  in  the 
cadences  of  his  voice  a  peculiar  note  of  peacefulness,  of  finality. 
The  day  before  he  died  Dr.  North  had  said : 

"I  want  McAlway  to  conduct  my  funeral,  not  as  a  minister 
but  as  a  man.  He  has  been  my  friend  for  forty  years;  he  will 
know  what  I  mean." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  did  not  say  much.  Why  should  he.? 
Everyone  there  knew:  and  speech  would  only  have  cheapened 
what  we  knew.  And  I  do  not  now  recall  even  the  little  he  said, 
for  there  was  so  much  all  about  me  that  spoke  not  of  the  death 
of  a  good  man,  but  of  his  life.  A  boy  who  stood  near  me — a  boy 
no  longer,  for  he  was  as  tall  as  a  man — ^gave  a  more  eloquent 
tribute  than  any  preacher  could  have  done.  I  saw  him  stand  his 
ground  for  a  time  with  that  grim  courage  of  youth  which  dreads 
emotion  more  than  a  battle :  and  then  I  saw  him  crying  behind  a 
tree!  He  was  not  a  relative  of  the  old  doctor's;  he  was  only  one 
of  many  into  whose  deep  life  the  doctor  had  entered. 

They  sang  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  and  came  out  through  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  107 

narrow  doorway  into  the  sunshine  with  the  coffin,  the  hats  o£ 
the  pall-bearers  in  a  row  on  top,  and  there  was  hardly  a  dry 
eye  among  us. 

And  as  they  came  out  through  the  narrow  doorway,  I  thought 
how  the  Doctor  must  have  looked  out  daily  through  so  many, 
many  years  upon  this  beauty  of  hills  and  fields  and  of  sky  above, 
grown  dearer  from  long  familiarity — which  he  would  know  no 
more.  And  Kate  North,  the  Doctor's  sister,  his  only  relative, 
followed  behind,  her  fine  old  face  gray  and  set,  but  without  a 
tear  in  her  eye.  How  like  the  Doctor  she  looked :  the  same  stern 
control! 

In  the  hours  which  followed,  on  the  pleasant  winding  way  to 
the  cemetery,  in  the  groups  under  the  trees,  on  the  way  home- 
ward again,  the  community  spoke  its  true  heart,  and  I  have 
come  back  with  the  feeling  that  human  nature,  at  bottom,  is 
sound  and  sweet.  I  knew  a  great  deal  before  about  Doctor 
North,  but  I  knew  it  as  knowledge,  not  as  emotion,  and  there- 
fore it  was  not  really  a  part  of  my  life. 

I  heard  again  the  stories  of  how  he  drove  the  country  roads, 
winter  and  summer,  how  he  had  seen  most  of  the  population 
into  the  world  and  had  held  the  hands  of  many  who  went  out! 
It  was  the  plain,  hard  life  of  a  country  doctor,  and  yet  it  seemed 
to  rise  in  our  community  like  some  great  tree,  its  roots  deep 
buried  in  the  soil  of  our  common  life,  its  branches  close  to  the 
sky.  To  those  accustomed  to  the  outward  excitements  of  city 
life  it  would  have  seemed  barren  and  uneventful.  It  was  signifi- 
cant that  the  talk  was  not  so  much  of  what  the  Doctor  did  as  of 
how  he  did  it,  not  so  much  of  his  actions  as  of  the  natural  expres- 
sion of  his  character.  And  when  we  come  to  think  of  it,  good- 
ness is  uneventful.  It  does  not  flash,  it  glows.  It  is  deep,  quiet 
and  very  simple.  It  passes  not  with  oratory,  it  is  commonly  for- 
eign to  riches,  nor  does  it  often  sit  in  the  places  of  the  mighty: 
but  may  be  felt  in  the  touch  of  a  friendly  hand  or  the  look  of  a 
kindly  eye. 

Outwardly,  John  North  often  gave  the  impression  of  brusque- 
ness.  Many  a  woman,  going  to  him  for  the  first  time,  and  until 
she  learned  that  he  was  in  reality  as  gentle  as  a  girl,  was  fright- 


108  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON  "" 

ened  by  his  manner.  The  country  is  full  of  stories  of  such  en- 
counters.  We  laugh  yet  over  the  adventure  of  a  woman  w^ho 
formerly  came  to  spend  her  summers  here.  She  dressed  very 
beautifully  and  was  "nervous."  One  day  she  went  to  call  on  the 
Doctor.  He  made  a  careful  examination  and  asked  many  ques- 
tions. Finally  he  said,  with  portentous  solemnity: 

"Madam,  you're  suffering  from  a  very  common  complaint." 

The  Doctor  paused,  then  continued,  impressively: 

"You  haven't  enough  work  to  do.  This  is  what  I  would  advise. 
Go  home,  discharge  your  servants,  do  your  own  cooking,  wash 
your  own  clothes  and  make  your  own  beds.  You'll  get  well." 

She  is  reported  to  have  been  much  offended,  and  yet  to-day 
there  was  a  wreath  of  white  roses  in  Doctor  North's  room  sent 
from  the  city  by  that  woman. 

If  he  really  hated  anything  in  this  world  the  Doctor  hated 
whimperers.  He  had  a  deep  sense  of  the  purpose  and  need  of 
punishment,  and  he  despised  those  who  fled  from  wholesome 
discipline. 

A  young  fellow  once  went  to  the  Doctor— so  they  tell  the 
story — and  asked  for  something  to  stop  his  pain. 

"Stop  it!"  exclaimed  the  Doctor:  "why,  it's  good  for  you. 
You've  done  wrong,  haven't  you?  Well,  you're  being  punished; 
take  it  like  a  man.  There's  nothing  more  wholesome  than  good 
honest  pain." 

And  yet  how  much  pain  he  alleviated  in  this  community— in 
forty  years! 

The  deep  sense  that  a  man  should  stand  up  to  his  fate  was 
one  of  the  key-notes  of  his  character;  and  the  way  he  taught  it, 
not  only  by  word  but  by  every  action  of  his  life,  put  heart  into 
many  a  weak  man  and  woman.  Mrs.  Patterson,  a  friend  of  ours, 
tells  of  a  reply  she  once  had  from  the  Doctor  to  whom  she  had 
gone  with  a  new  trouble.  After  telling  him  about  it  she  said: 

"I've  left  it  all  with  the  Lord." 

"You'd  have  done  better,"  said  the  Doctor,  "to  keep  it  your- 
self. Trouble  is  for  your  discipUne:  the  Lord  doesn't  need  it.'" 

It  was  thus  out  of  his  wisdom  that  he  was  always  telling  people 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  109 

what  they  knew,  deep  down  in  their  hearts,  to  be  true.  It  some- 
times hurt  at  first,  but  sooner  or  later,  if  the  man  had  a  spark  of 
real  manhood  in  him,  he  came  back,  and  gave  the  Doctor  an 
abiding  affection. 

There  were  those  who,  though  they  loved  him,  called  him 
intolerant.  I  never  could  look  at  it  that  way.  He  did  have  the 
only  kind  of  intolerance  which  is  at  all  tolerable,  and  that  is  the 
intolerance  of  intolerance.  He  always  set  himself  with  vigour 
against  that  unreason  and  lack  of  sympathy  which  are  the  es- 
sence of  intolerance;  and  yet  there  was  a  rock  of  conviction  on 
many  subjects  behind  which  he  could  not  be  driven.  It  was  not 
intolerance:  it  was  with  him  a  reasoned  certainty  of  belief.  He 
had  a  phrase  to  express  that  not  uncommon  state  of.mind,  in  this 
age  particularly,  which  is  politely  willing  to  yield  its  foothold 
within  this  universe  to  almost  any  reasoner  who  suggests  some 
other  universe,  however  shadowy,  to  stand  upon.  He  called  it 
a  "mush  of  concession."  He  might  have  been  wrong  in  his  con- 
victions, but  he,  at  least,  never  floundered  in  a  "mush  of  con- 
cession." I  heard  him  say  once: 

"There  are  some  things  a  man  can't  concede,  and  one  is,  that 
a  man  who  has  broken  a  law,  like  a  man  who  has  broken  a  leg, 
has  got  to  suffer  for  it." 

It  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  present  a  bill.  It  was  not  because  the  community 
was  poor,  though  some  of  our  people  are  poor,  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  because  the  Doctor  was  rich  and  could  afford  such 
philanthropy,  for,  saving  a  rather  unproductive  farm  which 
during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  lay  wholly  uncultivated,  he 
was  as  poor  as  any  man  in  the  community.  He  simply  seemed  to 
forget  that  people  owed  him. 

It  came  to  be  a  common  and  humorous  experience  for  people 
to  go  to  the  Doctor  and  say: 

"Now,  Doctor  North,  how  much  do  I  owe  you?  You  re- 
member you  attended  my  wife  two  years  ago  when  the  baby 
came — and  John  when  he  had  the  diphtheria " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  remember." 


no  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"I  thought  I  ought  to  pay  you." 
"Well,  ril  look  it  up  when  I  get  time." 
But  he  wouldn't.  The  only  way  was  to  go  to  him  and  sayc 
"Doctor,  I  want  to  pay  ten  dollars  on  account." 
"All  right,"  he'd  answer,  and  take  the  money. 
To  the  credit  of  the  community  I  may  say  with  truthfulness 
that  the  Doctor  never  suffered.  He  was  even  able  to  supply  him- 
self with  the  best  instruments  that  money  could  buy.  To  him 
nothing  was  too  good  for  our  neighbourhood.  This  morning  I 
saw  in  a  case  at  his  home  a  complete  set  of  ocuHst's  instruments, 
said  to  be  the  best  in  the  county — a  very  unusual  equipment  for 
a  country  doctor.  Indeed,  he  assumed  that  the  responsibility  for 
the  health  of  the  community  rested  upon  him.  He  was  a  sort  of 
self-constituted  health  officer.  He  was  always  sniffing  about  for 
old   wells   and   damp   cellars — and   somehow,   with   his   crisp 
humour  and  sound  sense,  getting  them  cleaned.  In  his  old 
age  he  even  grew  querulously  particular  about  these  things — 
asking  a  little  more  of  human  nature  than  it  could  quite  ac- 
complish. There  were  innumerable  other  ways — how  they  came 
out  to-day  all  glorified  now  that  he  is  gone! — in  which  he  served 
the  community. 

Horace  tells  how  he  once  met  the  Doctor  driving  his  old  white 
horse  in  the  town  road. 
"Horace,"  called  the  Doctor,  "why  don't  you  paint  your  barn?" 
"Well,"  said  Horace,  "it  is  beginning  to  look  a  bit  shabby." 
"Horace,"  said  the  Doctor,  "you're  a  prominent  citizen.  We 
look  to  you  to  keep  up  the  credit  of  the  neighbourhood*" 
Horace  painted  his  barn. 

I  think  Doctor  North  was  fonder  of  Charles  Baxter  than  of 
anyone  else,  save  his  sister.  He  hated  sham  and  cant:  if  a  man 
had  a  single  reality  in  him  the  old  Doctor  found  it;  and  Charles 
Baxter  in  many  ways  exceeds  any  man  I  ever  knew  in  the 
downright  quaUty  of  genuineness.  The  Doctor  was  never  tired 
of  telling — and  with  humour — how  he  once  went  to  Baxter  to 
have  a  table  made  for  his  office.  When  he  came  to  get  it 
he  found  the  table  upside  down  and  Baxter  on  his  knees  finish- 
ing off  the  under  part  of  the  drawer  sUdes.  Baxter  looked  up  and 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  111 

smiled  in  the  engaging  way  he  has,  and  continued  his  work. 
After  watching  him  for  some  time  the  Doctor  said: 

"Baxter,  why  do  you  spend  so  much  time  on  that  table? 
Who's  going  to  know  whether  or  not  the  last  touch  has  been  put 
on  the  under  side  of  it?" 

Baxter  straightened  up  and  looked  at  the  Doctor  in  surprise. 

"Why,  I  will,"  he  said. 

How  the  Doctor  loved  to  tell  that  story!  I  warrant  there  is 
no  boy  who  ever  grew  up  in  this  country  who  hasn't  heard  it. 

It  was  a  part  of  his  pride  in  finding  reality  that  made  the 
Doctor  such  a  lover  of  true  sentiment  and  such  a  hater  of  senti- 
mentality. I  prize  one  memory  of  him  which  illustrates  this 
point.  The  district  school  gave  a  "speaking"  and  we  all  went. 
One  boy  with  a  fresh  young  voice  spoke  a  "soldier  piece" — the 
soliloquy  of  a  one-armed  veteran  who  sits  at  a  window  and  sees 
the  troops  go  by  with  dancing  banners  and  glittering  bayonets, 
and  the  people  cheering  and  shouting.  And  the  refrain  went 
something  like  this : 

"Never  again  call  'Comrade' 

To  the  men  who  were  comrades  for  years; 
Never  again  call  'Brother 

To  the  men  we  thinf^^  of  with  tears." 

I  happened  to  look  around  while  the  boy  was  speaking,  and 
there  sat  the  old  Doctor  with  the  tears  rolling  unheeded  down 
his  ruddy  face;  he  was  thinking,  no  doubt,  of  his  war  time  and 
the  comrades  he  knew. 

On  the  other  hand,  how  he  despised  fustian  and  bombast.  His 
"Bah!"  delivered  explosively,  was  often  Uke  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  in  a  stuffy  room.  Several  years  ago,  before  I  came  here — and 
it  is  one  of  the  historic  stories  of  the  county — there  was  a  semi- 
political  Fourth  of  July  celebration  with  a  number  of  ambitious 
orators.  One  of  them,  a  young  fellow  of  small  worth  who  wanted 
to  be  elected  to  the  legislature,  made  an  impassioned  address  on 
"Patriotism."  The  Doctor  was  present,  for  he  Hked  gatherings: 
he  Hked  people.  But  he  did  not  like  the  young  orator,  and  did 
not  want  him  to  be  elected.  In  the  midst  of  the  speech,  while 


112 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


the  audience  was  being  carried  through  the  clouds  of  oratory, 
the  Doctor  was  seen  to  be  growing  more  and  more  uneasy. 
Finally  he  burst  out: 

"Bah!" 

The  orator  caught  himself,  and  then  swept  on  again. 

"Bahl"  said  the  Doctor. 


By  this  time  the  audience  was  really  interested.  The  orator 
stopped.  He  knew  the  Doctor,  and  he  should  have  known  bet- 
ter than  to  say  what  he  did.  But  he  was  very  young  and  he 
knew  the  Doctor  was  opposing  him. 

"Perhaps,"  he  remarked  sarcastically,  "the  Doctor  can  make 
a  better  speech  than  I  can." 

The  Doctor  rose  instantly,  to  his  full  height — and  he  was  an 
impressive-looking  man. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "I  can,  and  what  is  more,  I  will."  He  stood 
up  on  a  chair  and  gave  them  a  talk  on  Patriotism— real  patriotism 
— the  patriotism  of  duty  done  in  the  small  concerns  of  life.  That 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  113 

speech,  which  ended  the  political  career  of  the  orator,  is  not 
forgotten  to-day. 

One  thing  I  heard  to-day  about  the  old  Doctor  impressed  me 
deeply.  I  have  been  talking  about  it  ever  since:  it  illuminates 
his  character  more  than  anything  I  have  heard.  It  is  singular, 
too,  that  I  should  not  have  known  the  story  before.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  was  because  it  all  happened  so  long  ago;  it  rather  re- 
mained untold  out  of  deference  to  a  sort  of  neighbourhood 
delicacy. 

I  had,  indeed,  wondered  why  a  man  of  such  capacities,  so 
many  qualities  of  real  greatness  and  power,  should  have  escaped 
a  city  career.  I  said  something  to  this  effect  to  a  group  of  men 
with  whom  I  was  talking  this  morning.  I  thought  they  ex- 
changed glances;  one  said: 

"When  he  first  came  out  of  the  army  he'd  made  such  a  fine 
record  as  a  surgeon  that  everyone  urged  him  to  go  to  the  city 
and  practice " 

A  pause  followed  which  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  fill. 

"But  he  didn't  go,"  I  said. 

"No,  he  didn't  go.  He  was  a  brilliant  young  fellow.  He  \new 
a  lot,  and  he  was  popular,  too.  He'd  have  had  a  great  suc- 
cess  " 

Another  pause. 

"But  he  didn't  go?"  I  asked  promptingly. 

"No;  he  staid  here.  He  was  better  educated  than  any  man  in 
this  county.  Why,  I've  seen  him  more'n  once  pick  up  a  book 
of  Latin  and  read  it  jor  pleasure" 

I  could  see  that  all  this  was  purposely  irrelevant,  and  I  liked 
them  for  it.  But  walking  home  from  the  cemetery  Horace  gave 
me  the  story;  the  community  knew  it  to  the  last  detail.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  a  story  not  uncommon  among  men,  but  this  morn- 
ing, told  of  the  old  Doctor  we  had  just  laid  away,  it  struck  me 
with  a  tragic  poignancy  difficult  to  describe. 

"Yes,"  said  Horace,  "he  was  to  have  been  married,  forty 
years  ago,  and  the  match  was  broken  off  because  he  was  a 
drunkard." 

"A  drunkard!"  I  exclaimed,  with  a  shock  I  cannot  convey. 


114  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Horace,  "one  o'  the  worst  you  ever  see.  He 
got  it  in  the  army.  Handsome,  wild,  brilliant— that  was  the  Doc- 
tor. I  was  a  Httle  boy  but  I  remember  it  mighty  well." 

He  told  me  the  whole  distressing  story.  It  was  all  a  long  time 
ago  and  the  details  do  not  matter  now.  It  was  to  be  expected 
that  a  man  like  the  old  Doctor  should  love,  love  once,  and 
love  as  few  men  do.  And  that  is  what  he  did — and  the  girl  left 
him  because  he  was  a  drunkard! 

"They  all  thought,"  said  Horace,  "that  he'd  up  an'  kill  him- 
self. He  said  he  would,  but  he  didn't.  Instid  o'  that  he  put  an 
open  bottle  on  his  table  and  he  looked  at  it  and  said:  'Which 
is  stronger,  now,  you  or  John  North?  We'll  make  that  the  test,' 
he  said,  'we'll  live  or  die  by  that.'  Them  was  his  exact  words.  He 
couldn't  sleep  nights  and  he  got  haggard  like  a  sick  man,  but  he 
left  the  bottle  there  and  never  touched  it." 

How  my  heart  throbbed  with  the  thought  of  that  old  silent 
struggle!  How  much  it  explained;  how  near  it  brought  all  these 
people  around  him!  It  made  him  so  human.  It  is  the  tragic  neces- 
sity (but  the  salvation)  of  many  a  man  that  he  should  come 
finally  to  an  irretrievable  experience,  to  the  assurance  that 
everything  is  lost.  For  with  that  moment,  if  he  be  strong,  he  is 
saved.  I  wonder  if  anyone  ever  attains  real  human  sympathy  who 
has  not  passed  through  the  fire  of  some  such  experience.  Or  to 
humour  either!  For  in  the  best  laughter  do  we  not  hear  con- 
stantly that  deep  minor  note  which  speaks  of  the  ache  in  the 
human  heart?  It  seems  to  me  I  can  understand  Doctor  North! 

He  died  Friday  morning.  He  had  been  lying  very  quiet  all 
night;  suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes  and  said  to  his  sister: 
"Good-bye,  Kate,"  and  shut  them  again.  That  was  all.  The  last 
call  had  come  and  he  was  ready  for  it.  I  looked  at  his  face 
after  death.  I  saw  the  iron  lines  of  that  old  struggle  in  his  mouth 
and  chin;  and  the  humour  that  it  brought  him  in  the  lines  around 
his  deep-set  eyes. 

And  as  I  think  of  him  this  -  afternoon,  I  can  see  him — 

curiously,  for  I  can  hardly  explain  it — carrying  a  banner  as  in 
battle  right  here  among  our  quiet  hills.  And  those  he  leads  seem 
to  be  the  people  we  know,  the  men,  and  the  women,  and  tht 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT     115 

boys!  He  is  the  hero  of  a  new  age.  In  olden  days  he  might  have 
been  a  pioneer,  carrying  the  hght  of  civiHsation  to  a  new  land; 
here  he  has  been  a  sort  of  moral  pioneer — a  pioneering  far 
more  difficult  than  any  we  have  ever  known.  There  are  no 
heroics  connected  with  it,  the  name  of  the  pioneer  will  not  go 
ringing  down  the  ages ;  for  it  is  a  silent  leadership  and  its  success 
is  measured  by  victories  in  other  lives.  We  see  it  now,  only  too 
dimly,  when  he  is  gone.  We  reflect  sadly  that  we  did  not  stop 
to  thank  him.  How  busy  we  were  with  our  own  affairs  when  he 
was  among  us!  I  wonder  is  there  anyone  here  to  take  up  the 
banner  he  has  laid  down! 

1  forgot  to  say  that  the  Scotch  Preacher  chose  the  most 

impressive  text  in  the  Bible  for  his  talk  at  the  funeral: 

"He  that  is  greatest  among  you,  let  him  be  ...  as  he  that  doth 
serve." 

And  we  came  away  with  a  nameless,  aching  sense  of  loss, 
thinking  how,  perhaps,  in  a  small  way,  we  might  do  something 
for  somebody  else— as  the  old  Doctor  did. 


XII 
AN  EVENING  AT  HOME 

'How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone, 
To  read  and  meditate  and  write. 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none. 
To  wal\,  ride,  sit  or  sleep  at  one's  own  ease, 

And,  pleasing  a  mans  self,  none  other  to  displease." 

— CHARLES  COTTON,  A  FRIEND  OF  IZAAK  WALTON,  165O. 


JL/uRiNG  THE  LAST  FEW  MONTHS  SO  many  of  the  real  adventures 
of  life  have  been  out  of  doors  and  so  much  of  the  beauty,  too, 
that  I  have  scarcely  w^ritten  a  word  about  my  books.  In  the 
summer  the  days  are  so  long  and  the  work  so  engrossing  that  a 
farmer  is  quite  willing  to  sit  quietly  on  his  porch  after  supper 
and  watch  the  long  evenings  fall — and  rest  his  tired  back,  and 
go  to  bed  early.  But  the  winter  is  the  true  time  for  indoor  en- 
joyment! 

Days  like  these!  A  cold  night  after  a  cold  day!  Well  wrapped, 
you  have  made  arctic  explorations  to  the  stable,  the  chicken-yard 
and  the  pig-pen;  you  have  dug  your  way  energetically  to  the 
front  gate,  stopping  every  few  minutes  to  beat  your  arms  around 
your  shoulders  and  watch  the  white  plume  of  your  breath  in  the 
still  air— and  you  have  rushed  in  gladly  to  the  warmth  of  the 

116 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  117 

dining-room  and  the  lamp-lit  supper.  After  such  a  day  how- 
sharp  your  appetite,  how  good  the  taste  of  food!  Harriet's  brown 
bread  (moist,  with  thick,  sweet,  dark  crusts)  was  never  quite  so 
delicious,  and  when  the  meal  is  finished  you  push  back  your 
chair  feeling  like  a  sort  of  lord. 

"That  was  a  good  supper,  Harriet,"  you  say  expansively. 

"Was  it?"  she  asks  modestly,  but  with  evident  pleasure. 

"Cookery,"  you  remark,  "is  the  greatest  art  in  the  world " 

"Oh,  you  were  hungry!" 

"Next  to  poetry,"  you  conclude,  "and  much  better  appreciated. 
Think  how  easy  it  is  to  find  a  poet  who  will  turn  you  a  pre- 
sentable sonnet,  and  how  very  difficult  it  is  to  find  a  cook  who 
will  turn  you  an  edible  beefsteak " 

I  said  a  good  deal  more  on  this  subject  which  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  repeat.  Harriet  did  not  listen  through  it  all.  She 
knows  what  I  am  capable  of  when  I  really  get  started;  and 
she  has  her  well-defined  limits.  A  practical  person,  Harriet! 
When  I  have  gone  about  so  far,  she  begins  clearing  the  table  or 
takes  up  her  mending— but  I  don't  mind  it  at  all.  Having  begun 
talking,  it  is  wonderful  how  pleasant  one's  own  voice  becomes. 
And  think  of  having  a  clear  field — and  no  interruptions! 

My  own  particular  room,  where  I  am  permitted  to  revel  in 
the  desert  of  my  own  disorder,  opens  comfortably  oflF  the  sitting- 
room.  A  lamp  with  a  green  shade  stands  invitingly  on  the  table 
shedding  a  circle  of  light  on  the  books  and  papers  underneath, 
but  leaving  all  the  remainder  of  the  room  in  dim  pleasantness. 
At  one  side  stands  a  comfortable  big  chair  with  everything  in 
arm's  reach,  including  my  note  books  and  ink  bottle.  Where  I 
sit  I  can  look  out  through  the  open  doorway  and  see  Harriet 
near  the  fireplace  rocking  and  sewing.  Sometimes  she  hums  a 
little  tune  which  I  never  confess  to  hearing,  lest  I  miss  some 
of  the  unconscious  cadences.  Let  the  wind  blow  outside  and  the 
snow  drift  in  piles  around  the  doorway  and  the  blinds  rattle — 
I  have  before  me  a  whole  long  pleasant  evening. 

What  a  convenient  and  delightful  world  is  this  world  of 
books!— if  you  bring  to  it  not  the  obligations  of  the  student,  or 


118  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

look  upon  it  as  an  opiate  for  idleness,  but  enter  it  rather  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  adventurer!  It  has  vast  advantages  over  the 
ordinary  world  of  daylight,  of  barter  and  trade,  of  work  and 
worry.  In  this  world  every  man  is  his  own  King — the  sort  of 
King  one  loves  to  imagine,  not  concerned  in  such  petty  matters 
as  wars  and  parliaments  and  taxes,  but  a  mellow  and  moderate 
despot  who  is  a  true  patron  of  genius — a  mild  old  chap  who 
has  in  his  court  the  greatest  men  and  women  in  the  world — 
and  all  of  them  vying  to  please  the  most  vagrant  of  his  moods! 
Invite  any  one  of  them  to  talk,  and  if  your  highness  is  not 
pleased  with  him  you  have  only  to  put  him  back  in  his  corner 
— and  bring  some  jester  to  sharpen  the  laughter  of  your  highness, 
or  some  poet  to  set  your  faintest  emotion  to  music! 

I  have  marked  a  certain  servility  in  books.  They  entreat  you 
for  a  hearing:  they  cry  out  from  their  cases — like  men,  in  an 
eternal  struggle  for  survival,  for  immortality. 

"Take  me,"  pleads  this  one,  "I  am  responsive  to  every  mood 
You  will  find  in  me  love  and  hate,  virtue  and  vice.  I  don't 
preach:  I  give  you  life  as  it  is.  You  will  find  here  adventures 
cunningly  linked  with  romance  and  seasoned  to  suit  the  most 
fastidious  taste.  Try  me." 

"Hear  such  talk!"  cries  his  neighbour.  "He's  fiction.  What  he 
says  never  happened  at  all.  He  tries  hard  to  make  you  beUeve  it, 
but  it  isn't  true,  not  a  word  of  it.  Now,  I'm  fact.  Everything 
you  find  in  me  can  be  depended  upon." 

"Yes,"  responds  the  other,  "but  who  cares!  Nobody  wants 
to  read  you,  you're  dull." 

"You're  false!" 

As  their  voices  grow  shriller  with  argument  your  highness 
listens  with  the  indulgent  smile  of  royalty  when  its  courtiers 
contend  for  its  favour,  knowing  that  their  very  life  depends 
upon  a  wrinkle  in  your  august  brow. 

As  for  me  I  confess  to  being  a  rather  crusty  despot.  When 
Horace  was  over  here  the  other  evening  talking  learnedly  about 
silos  and  ensilage  I  admit  that  I  became  the  very  pattern  of 
humility,  but  when  I  take  my  place  in  the  throne  of  my  arm- 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  119 

chair  with  the  light  from  the  green-shaded  lamp  falling  on  the 
open  pages  of  my  book,  I  assure  you  I  am  decidedly  an  autocratic 
person.  My  retainers  must  distinctly  keep  their  places!  I  have  my 
court  favourites  upon  whom  I  lavish  the  richest  gifts  of  my 
attention.  I  reserve  for  them  a  special  place  in  the  worn  case 
nearest  my  person,  where  at  the  mere  outreaching  of  an  idle 
hand  I  can  summon  them  to  beguile  my  moods.  The  necessary 
Slavics  of  literature  I  have  arranged  in  indistinct  rows  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  where  they  can  be  had  if  I  require  their 
special  accompHshments. 

How  httle,  after  all,  learning  counts  in  this  world  either  in 
books  or  in  men.  I  have  often  been  awed  by  the  wealth  of 
information  I  have  discovered  in  a  man  or  a  book:  I  have  been 
awed  and  depressed.  How  wonderful,  I  have  thought,  that 
one  brain  should  hold  so  much,  should  be  so  infallible  in  a 
world  of  fallibihty.  But  I  have  observed  how  soon  and  com- 
pletely such  a  fount  of  information  dissipates  itself.  Having 
only  things  to  give,  it  comes  finally  to  the  end  of  its  things: 
it  is  empty.  What  it  has  hived  up  so  painfully  through  many  a 
studious  year  comes  now  to  be  common  property.  We  pass 
that  way,  take  our  share,  and  do  not  even  say  "Thank  you." 
Learning  is  like  money;  it  is  of  prodigious  satisfaction  to  the 
possessor  thereof,  but  once  given  forth  it  diffuses  itself  swiftly. 

"What  have  you?"  we  are  ever  asking  of  those  we  meet. 
"Information,  learning,  money?" 

We  take  it  cruelly  and  pass  onward,  for  such  is  the  law  of 
material  possessions. 

"What  have  you?"  we  ask.  "Charm,  personality,  character, 
the  great  gift  of  unexpectedness?" 

How  we  draw  you  to  us!  We  take  you  in.  Poor  or  ignorant 
though  you  may  be,  we  link  arms  and  loiter;  we  love  you 
not  for  what  you  have  or  what  you  give  us,  but  for  what  you 
are. 

I  have  several  good  friends  (excellent  people)  who  act  always 
as  I  expect  them  to  act.  There  is  no  flight!  More  than  once  I 
have  listened  to  the  edifying  conversation  of  a  certain  sturdy 


120  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

old  gentleman  whom  I  know,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
I  have  thought : 

"Lord!  if  he  would  jump  up  now  and  turn  an  intellectual 
handspring,  or  slap  me  on  the  back  (figuratively,  of  course:  the 
other  would  be  unthinkable),  or — yes,  swear!  I — think  I  could 
love  him." 

But  he  never  does — and  I'm  afraid  he  never  will! 

When  I  speak  then  of  my  books  you  will  know  what  I  mean. 
The  chief  charm  of  literature,  old  or  new,  Hes  in  its  high 
quality  of  surprise,  unexpectedness,  spontaneity:  high  spirits 
applied  to  life.  We  can  fairly  hear  some  of  the  old  chaps  you  and 
I  know  laughing  down  through  the  centuries.  How  we  love 
'em!  They  laughed  for  themselves,  not  for  us! 

Yes,  there  must  be  surprise  in  the  books  that  I  keep  in  the 
worn  case  at  my  elbow,  the  surprise  of  a  new  personality  per- 
ceiving for  the  first  time  the  beauty,  the  wonder,  the  humour, 
the  tragedy,  the  greatness  of  truth.  It  doesn't  matter  at  all 
whether  the  writer  is  a  poet,  a  scientist,  a  traveller,  an  essayist  or 
a  mere  daily  space-maker,  if  he  have  the  God-given  grace  of 
wonder. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  laughing  about?"  cries  Harriet  from 
the  sitting-room. 
When  I  have  caught  my  breath,  I  say,  holding  up  my  book: 
"This  absurd  man  here  is  teUing  of  the  adventures  of  a  certain 
chivalrous  Knight." 

"But  I  can't  see  how  you  can  laugh  out  like  that,  sitting  all 
alone  there.  Why,  it's  uncanny." 
"You  don't  know  the  Knight,  Harriet,  nor  his  squire  Sancho." 
"You  talk  of  them  just  as  though  they  were  real  persons." 
"Real!"  I  exclaim,  "real!  Why  they  are  much  more  real  than 
most  of  the  people  we  know.  Horace  is  a  mere  wraith  compared 
with  Sancho." 
And  then  I  rush  out. 

"Let  me  read  you  this,"  I  say,  and  I  read  that  matchless  chap- 
ter wherein  the  Knight,  having  clapped  on  his  head  the  helmet 
which  Sancho  has  inadvertently  used  as  a  receptacle  for  a 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  121 

dinner  of  curds  and,  sweating  whey  profusely,  goes  forth  to 
fight  two  fierce  lions.  As  I  proceed  with  that  prodigious  story,  I 
can  see  Harriet  gradually  forgetting  her  sewing,  and  I  read  on 
the  more  furiously  until,  coming  to  the  point  of  the  conflict 
wherein  the  generous  and  gentle  lion,  having  yawned,  "threw 
out  some  half  yard  of  tongue  wherewith  he  licked  and  washed 
his  face,"  Harriet  begins  to  laugh. 

"There!"  I  say  triumphantly. 

Harriet  looks  at  me  accusingly. 

"Such  foolishness!"  she  says.  "Why  should  any  man  in  his 
senses  try  to  fight  caged  lions!" 

"Harriet,"  I  say,  "you  are  incorrigible." 

She  does  not  deign  to  reply,  so  I  return  with  meekness  to  my 
room. 

The  most  distressing  thing  about  the  ordinary  fact  writer  is 
his  cock-sureness.  Why,  here  is  a  man  (I  have  not  yet  dropped 
him  out  of  the  window)  who  has  written  a  large  and  sober  book 
explaining  Hfe.  And  do  you  know  when  he  gets  through  he  is 
apparently  much  discouraged  about  this  universe.  This  is  the 
veritable  moment  when  I  am  in  love  with  my  occupation  as  a 
despot!  At  this  moment  I  will  exercise  the  prerogative  of 
tyranny: 

"0£[  with  his  head!" 

I  do  not  beheve  this  person  though  he  have  ever  so  many 
titles,  to  jingle  after  his  name,  nor  in  the  colleges  which  gave 
them,  if  they  stand  sponsor  for  that  which  he  writes.  I  do  not 
believe  he  has  compassed  this  universe.  I  believe  him  to  be  an 
inconsequent  being  like  myself — oh,  much  more  learned,  of 
course — and  yet  only  upon  the  threshold  of  these  wonders.  It 
goes  too  deep — life — to  be  solved  by  fifty  years  of  living.  There 
is  far  too  much  in  the  blue  firmament,  too  many  stars,  to  be  dis- 
solved in  the  feeble  logic  of  a  single  brain.  We  are  not  yet  great 
enough,  even  this  explanatory  person,  to  grasp  the  "scheme  of 
things  entire."  This  is  no  place  for  weak  pessimism — this  uni- 
verse. This  is  Mystery  and  out  of  Mystery  springs  the  fine  ad- 
venture! What  we  have  seen  or  felt,  what  we  think  we  know> 


122  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

are  insignificant  compared  with  that  which  may  be  known. 

What  this  person  explains  is  not,  after  all,  the  Universe — but 
himself,  his  own  limited,  faithless  personality.  I  shall  not  ac- 
cept his  explanation.  I  escape  him  utterly! 

Not  long  ago,  coming  in  from  my  fields,  I  fell  to  thinking  of 
the  supreme  wonder  of  a  tree;  and  as  I  walked  I  met  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"How,"  I  asked,  "does  the  sap  get  up  to  the  top  of  these 
great  maples  and  elms  ?  What  power  is  there  that  should  draw  it 
upward  against  the  force  of  gravity  ? " 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  his  peculiar  slow  smile. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  "do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  science 
has  not  solved  this  simplest  of  natural  phenomena?" 

"We  do  not  know,"  he  said.  "We  explain,  but  we  do  not 
know." 

No,  my  Explanatory  Friend,  we  do  not  know— we  do  not 
know  the  why  of  the  flowers,  or  the  trees,  or  the  suns;  we  do 
not  even  know  why,  in  our  hearts,  we  should  be  asking  this 
curious  question — and  other  deeper  questions. 

No  man  becomes  a  great  writer  unless  he  possesses  a  highly 
developed  sense  of  Mystery,  of  wonder.  A  great  writer  is  never 
blase;  everything  to  him  happened  not  longer  ago  than  this 
forenoon. 

The  other  night  the  Professor  and  the  Scotch  Preacher  hap- 
pened in  here  together  and  we  fell  to  discussing,  I  hardly  know 
how,  for  we  usually  talk  the  neighbourhood  chat  of  the  Stark- 
weather's, of  Horace  and  of  Charles  Baxter,  we  fell  to  dis- 
cussing old  Izaak  Walton — and  the  nonsense  (as  a  scientific  age 
knows  it  to  be)  which  he  sometimes  talked  with  such  delightful 
sobriety. 

"How  superior  it  makes  one  feel,  in  behalf  of  the  enlighten- 
ment and  progress  of  his  age,"  said  the  Professor,  "when  he  reads 
Izaak's  extraordinary  natural  history." 

"Does  it  make  you  feel  that  way?"  asked  the  Scotch  Preacher. 
"It  makes  me  want  to  go  fishing." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  123 

And  he  took  the  old  book  and  turned  the  leaves  until  he 
came  to  page  54. 

"Let  me  read  you,"  he  said,  "what  the  old  fellow  says  about  the 
'fearfulest  of  fishes.' " 

"  *.  .  .  Get  secretly  behind  a  tree,  and  stand  as  free  from  motion 
as  possible;  then  put  a  grasshopper  on  your  hook,  and  let  your 
hook  hang  a  quarter  of  a  yard  short  of  the  water,  to  which  end 
you  must  rest  your  rod  on  some  bough  of  a  tree;  but  it  is  likely  that 
the  Chubs  will  sink  down  towards  the  bottom  of  the  water  at  the 
first  shadow  of  your  rod,  for  a  Chub  is  the  fearfulest  of  fishes,  and 
will  do  so  if  but  a  bird  flies  over  him  and  makes  the  least  shadow 
on  the  water;  but  they  will  presently  rise  up  to  the  top  again, 
and  there  lie  soaring  until  some  shadow  affrights  them  again;  I 
say,  when  they  lie  upon  the  top  of  the  water,  look  at  the  best  Chub, 
which  you,  getting  yourself  in  a  fit  place,  may  very  easily  see,  and 
move  your  rod  as  slowly  as  a  snail  moves,  to  that  Chub  you  intend 
to  catch,  let  your  bait  fall  gently  upon  the  water  three  or  four 
inches  before  him,  and  he  will  infallibly  take  the  bait,  and  you 
will  be  as  sure  to  catch  him.  .  .  .  Go  your  way  presently,  take  my 
rod,  and  do  as  I  bid  you,  and  I  will  sit  down  and  mend  my  tackling 
till  you  return  back '  " 

"Now  I  say,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher,  "that  it  makes  me 
want  to  go  fishing." 

"That,"  I  said,  "is  true  of  every  great  book:  it  either  makes 
us  want  to  do  things,  to  go  fishing,  or  fight  harder  or  endure 
more  patiently — or  it  takes  us  out  of  ourselves  and  beguiles 
us  for  a  time  with  the  friendship  of  completer  lives  than  our 
own." 

The  great  books  indeed  have  in  them  the  burning  fire  of  life; 

....  "nay,  they  do  preserve,  as  in  a  violl,  the  purest  efficacie 
and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know 
they  are  as  lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabulous 
Dragon's  teeth;  which  being  sown  up  and  down,  may  chance  to 
spring  up  armed  men." 

How  soon  we  come  to  distinguish  the  books  of  the  mere 
writers  from  the  books  of  real  men!  For  true  literature,  like 


124  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

happiness,  is  ever  a  by-product;  it  is  the  half -conscious  expres- 
sion of  a  man  greatly  engaged  in  some  other  undertaking;  it 
is  the  song  of  one  working.  There  is  something  inevitable,  unre- 
strainable  about  the  great  books;  they  seemed  to  come  despite 
the  author.  "I  could  not  sleep,"  says  the  poet  Horace,  "for  the 
pressure  of  unwritten  poetry."  Dante  said  of  his  books  that 
they  "made  him  lean  for  many  days."  I  have  heard  people  say 
of  a  writer  in  explanation  of  his  success: 
"Oh,  well,  he  has  the  Uterary  knack." 


"The  beauty,  the  wonder,  the  humour,  the  tragedy,  the 
greatness  of  truth" 

It  is  not  so!  Nothing  is  further  from  the  truth.  He  writes 
well  not  chiefly  because  he  is  interested  in  writing,  or  because 
he  possesses  any  especial  knack,  but  because  he  is  more  pro- 
foundly, vividly  interested  in  the  activities  of  life  and  he  tells 
about  them — over  his  shoulder.  For  writing,  like  farming,  is  ever 
a  tool,  not  an  end. 

How  the  great  one-book  men  remain  with  us!  I  can  see 
Marcus  Aurelius  sitting  in  his  camps  among  the  far  barbarians 
writing  out  the  reflections  of  a  busy  Ufe.  I  see  William  Penn 
engaged  in  great  undertakings,  setting  down  "Some  of  the 
Fruits  of  Sohtude,"  and  Abraham  Lincoln  striking,  in  the 
hasty  paragraphs  written  for  his  speeches,  one  of  the  highest 
notes  in  our  American  literature. 

"David?" 
"Yes,  Harriet." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  125 

"I  am  going  up  now;  it  is  very  late." 

"Yes." 

"You  will  bank  the  fire  and  see  that  the  doors  are  locked?" 

"Yes." 

After  a  pause:  "And,  David,  I  didn't  mean — about  the  story 
you  read.  Did  the  Knight  finally  kill  the  lions?" 

"No,"  I  said  with  sobriety,  "it  was  not  finally  necessary." 

"But  I  thought  he  set  out  to  kill  them." 

"He  did;  but  he  proved  his  valour  without  doing  it." 

Harriet  paused,  made  as  if  to  speak  again,  but  did  not  do  so. 

"Valour" — I  began  in  my  hortatory  tone,  seeing  a  fair  opening, 
but  at  the  look  in  her  eye  I  immediately  desisted. 

"You  won't  stay  up  late?"  she  warned. 

-'N-o,"  I  said. 

Take  John  Bunyan  as  a  pattern  of  the  man  who  forgot  him- 
self into  immortality.  How  seriously  he  wrote  sermons  and 
pamphlets,  now  happily  forgotten!  But  it  was  not  until  he  was 
shut  up  in  jail  (some  writers  I  know  might  profit  by  his  example) 
that  he  "put  aside,"  as  he  said,  "a  more  serious  and  important 
work"  and  wrote  "Pilgrim's  Progress."  It  is  the  strangest  thing 
in  the  world — the  judgment  of  men  as  to  what  is  important  and 
serious!  Bunyan  says  in  his  rhymed  introduction: 

"1  only  thought  to  ma\e 
1  \new  not  what:  nor  did  I  undertake 
Thereby  to  please  my  neighbour;  no,  not  I: 
I  did  it  my  own  self  to  gratify" 

Another  man  I  love  to  have  at  hand  is  he  who  writes  of 
Blazing  Bosville,  the  Flaming  Tinman,  and  of  The  Hairy  Ones. 

How  Borrow  escapes  through  his  books!  His  object  was  not  to 
produce  literature  but  to  display  his  erudition  as  a  master  of 
language  and  of  outlandish  custom,  and  he  went  about  the  task 
in  all  seriousness  of  demolishing  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
We  are  not  now  so  impressed  with  his  erudition  that  we  do 
not  smile  at  his  vanity  and  we  are  quite  contented,  even  after 
reading  his  books,  to  let  the  church  survive;  but  how  shall  we 


126  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

spare  our  friend  with  his  inextinguishable  love  of  life,  his 
pugilists,  his  gypsies,  his  horse  traders?  We  are  even  willing  to 
plow  through  arid  deserts  of  dissertation  in  order  that  we  may 
enjoy  the  perfect  oases  in  which  the  man  forgets  himself! 

Reading  such  books  as  these  and  a  hundred  others,  the  books 
of  the  worn  case  at  my  elbow, 

"The   bulged  and  the   bruised   octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves " 

I  become  like  those  initiated  in  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  who, 
as  Cicero  tells  us,  have  attained  "the  art  of  living  joyfully  and  of 
dying  with  a  fairer  hope." 

It  is  late,  and  the  house  is  still.  A  few  bright  embers  glow  in 
the  fireplace.  You  look  up  and  around  you,  as  though  coming 
back  to  the  world  from  some  far-off  place.  The  clock  in  the 
dining-room  ticks  with  solemn  precision;  you  did  not  recall  that 
it  had  so  loud  a  tone.  It  has  been  a  great  evening,  in  this  quiet 
room  on  your  farm,  you  have  been  able  to  entertain  the  worthies 
of  all  the  past! 

You  walk  out,  resoundingly,  to  the  kitchen  and  open  the 
door.  You  look  across  the  still  white  fields.  Your  barn  looms 
black  in  the  near  distance,  the  white  mound  close  at  hand  is 
your  wood-pile,  the  great  trees  stand  like  sentinels  in  the  moon- 
light; snow  has  drifted  upon  the  doorstep  and  Hes  there  un- 
tracked.  It  is,  indeed,  a  dim  and  untracked  world :  coldly  beauti- 
ful but  silent — and  of  a  strange  unreaUty!  You  close  the  door 
with  half  a  shiver  and  take  the  real  world  with  you  up  to  bed. 
For  it  is  past  one  o'clock. 


XIII 
THE  POLITICIAN 


I 


N  THE  CITY,  as  I  now  recall  it  (having  escaped),  it  seemed  to  be 
the  instinctive  purpose  of  every  citizen  I  knew  not  to  get  into 
politics  but  to  keep  out.  We  sedulously  avoided  caucuses  and 
school-meetings,  our  time  was  far  too  precious  to  be  squandered 
in  jury  service,  we  forgot  to  register  for  elections,  we  neglected 
to  vote.  We  observed  a  sort  of  aristocratic  contempt  for  political 
activity  and  then  fretted  and  fumed  over  the  low  estate  to  which 
our  government  had  fallen — and  never  saw  the  humour  of  it  all. 

At  one  time  I  experienced  a  sort  of  political  awakening:  a 
"boss"  we  had  was  more  than  ordinarily  piratical.  I  think  he  had 
a  scheme  to  steal  the  city  hall  and  sell  the  monuments  in  the 
park  (something  of  that  sort),  and  I,  for  one,  was  disturbed. 
For  a  time  I  really  wanted  to  bear  a  man's  part  in  helping  to 
correct  the  abuses,  only  I  did  not  know  how  and  could  not  find 
out. 

In  the  city,  when  one  would  learn  anything  about  pubHc 
matters,  he  turns,  not  to  life,  but  to  books  or  newspapers.  What 
we  get  in  the  city  is  not  life,  but  what  someone  else  tells  us 
about  life.  So  I  acquired  a  really  formidable  row  of  works  on 

127 


128  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Political  Economy  and  Government  (I  admire  the  word  "works" 
in  that  appHcation)  where  I  found  Society  laid  out  for  me  in 
the  most  perfect  order — with  pennies  on  its  eyes.  How  often, 
looking  back,  I  see  myself  as  in  those  days,  reading  my  learned 
books  with  a  sort  of  fury  of  interest! — 

From  the  reading  of  books  I  acquired  a  sham  comfort. 
Dwelling  upon  the  excellent  theory  of  our  institutions,  I  was 
content  to  disregard  the  realities  of  daily  practice.  I  acquired 
a  mock  assurance  under  which  I  proceeded  complacently  to 
the  polls,  and  cast  my  vote  without  knowing  a  single  man  on 
the  ticket,  what  he  stood  for,  or  what  he  really  intended  to  do. 
The  ceremony  of  the  ballot  bears  to  politics  much  the  relation- 
ship that  the  sacrament  bears  to  religion:  how  often,  observing 
the  formality,  we  yet  depart  wholly  from  the  spirit  of  the  institu- 
tion. 

It  was  good  to  escape  that  place  of  hurrying  strangers.  It  was 
good  to  get  one's  feet  down  into  the  soil.  It  was  good  to  be  in  a 
place  where  things  are  because  they  grow,  and  politics,  not  less 
than  corn!  Oh,  my  friend,  say  what  you  please,  argue  how  you 
like,  this  crowding  together  of  men  and  women  in  unnatural 
surroundings,  this  haste  to  be  rich  in  material  things,  this  at- 
tempt to  enjoy  without  production,  this  removal  from  first-hand 
life,  is  irrational,  and  the  end  of  it  is  ruin.  If  our  cities  were  not 
recruited  constantly  with  the  fresh,  clean  blood  of  the  country, 
with  boys  who  still  retain  some  of  the  power  and  the  vision 
drawn  from  the  soil,  where  would  they  be! 

"We're  a  great  people,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  "but  we  don't 
always  work  at  it." 

"But  we  talk  about  it,"  says  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

"By  the  way,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  "have  you  seen  George 
Warren?  He's  up  for  supervisor." 

"I  haven't  yet." 

"Well,  go  around  and  see  him.  We  must  find  out  exactly 
what  he  intends  to  do  with  the  Summit  Hill  road.  If  he  is 
weak  on  that  we'd  better  look  to  Matt  Devine.  At  least  Matt  is 
safe." 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  129 

The  Scotch  Preacher  looked  at  Charles  Baxter  and  said  to 
me  with  a  note  of  admiration  in  his  voice : 

"Isn't  this  man  Baxter  getting  to  be  intolerable  as  a  poUtica^ 
boss!" 

Baxter's  shop!  Baxter's  shop  stands  close  to  the  road  and  just 
in  the  edge  of  a  grassy  old  apple  orchard.  It  is  a  low,  unpainted 
building,  with  generous  double  doors  in  front,  standing  ir- 
resistibly open  as  you  go  by.  Even  as  a  stranger  coming  here  first 
from  the  city  I  felt  the  call  of  Baxter's  shop.  Shall  I  ever  forget! 
It  was  a  still  morning — one  of  those  days  of  warm  sunshine — 
and  perfect  quiet  in  the  country — and  birds  in  the  branches 
— and  apple  trees  all  in  bloom.  Baxter  was  whistUng  at  his  work 
in  the  sunlit  doorway  of  his  shop,  in  his  long,  faded  apron, 
much  worn  at  the  knees.  He  was  bending  to  the  rhythmic 
movement  of  his  plane,  and  all  around  him  as  he  worked 
rose  billows  of  shavings.  And  oh,  the  odours  of  that  shop!  the 
fragrant,  resinous  odour  of  new-cut  pine,  the  pungent  smell  of 
black  walnut,  the  dull  odour  of  oak  wood— how  they  stole  out 
in  the  sunshine,  waylaying  you  as  you  came  far  up  the  road, 
beguiling  you  as  you  passed  the  shop,  and  steaUng  reproachfully 
after  you  as  you  went  onward  down  the  road. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  grateful  moment  when  I  first  passed 
Baxter's  shop — a  failure  from  the  city — and  Baxter  looking  out 
at  me  from  his  deep,  quiet,  gray  eyes— eyes  that  were  almost 
a  caress! 

My  wayward  feet  soon  took  me,  unintroduced,  within  the 
doors  of  that  shop,  the  first  of  many  visits.  And  I  can  say  no 
more  in  appreciation  of  my  ventures  there  than  that  I  came 
out  always  with  more  than  I  had  when  I  went  in. 

The  wonders  there!  The  long  bench  with  its  huge-jawed 
wooden  vises,  and  the  Uttle  dusty  windows  above  looking  out 
into  the  orchard,  and  the  brown  planes  and  the  row  of  shiny 
saws,  and  the  most  wonderful  pattern  squares  and  triangles 
and  curves,  each  hanging  on  its  own  peg;  and  above,  in  the 
rafters,  every  sort  and  size  of  curious  wood.  And  oh!  the  old 
bureaus  and  whatnots  and  high-boys  in  the  corners  waiting  their 


130  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

turn  to  be  mended;  and  the  sticky  glue-pot  waiting,  too,  on 
the  end  of  the  sawhorse.  There  is  family  history  here  in  this 
shop — no  end  of  it — the  small  and  yet  great  (because  intensely 
human)  tragedies  and  humours  of  the  long,  quiet  years  among 
these  sunny  hills.  That  whatnot  there,  the  one  of  black  walnut 
with  the  top  knocked  oflF,  that  belonged  in  the  old  days  to 

"Charles  Baxter,"  calls  my  friend  Patterson  from  the  roadway, 
"can  you  fix  my  cupboard?" 

"Bring  it  in,"  says  Charles  Baxter,  hospitably,  and  Patterson 
brings  it  in,  and  stops  to  talk — and  stops — and  stops — There  is 
great  talk  in  Baxter's  shop — the  slow-gathered  wisdom  of  the 
country,  the  lore  of  crops  and  calves  and  cabinets.  In  Baxter's 
shop  we  choose  the  next  President  of  these  United  States! 

You  laugh!  But  we  do — exactly  that.  It  is  in  the  Baxters* 
shops  (not  in  Broadway,  not  in  State  Street)  where  the  presi- 
dents are  decided  upon.  In  the  little  grocery  stores  you  and  I 
know,  in  the  blacksmithies,  in  the  schoolhouses  back  in  the 
country! 

Forgive  me!  I  did  not  intend  to  wander  away.  I  meant  to  keep 
to  my  subject — but  the  moment  I  began  to  talk  of  politics  in  the 
country  I  was  beset  by  a  compelling  vision  of  Charles  Baxter 
coming  out  of  his  shop  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  carrying  his 
curious  old  reflector  lamp  and  leading  the  way  down  the  road  to 
the  schoolhouse.  And  thinking  of  the  lamp  brought  a  vision  of 
the  joys  of  Baxter's  shop,  and  thinking  of  the  shop  brought  me 
naturally  around  to  politics  and  presidents;  and  here  I  am  again 
where  I  started! 

Baxter's  lamp  is,  somehow,  inextricably  associated  in  my  mind 
with  poHtics.  Being  busy  farmers,  we  hold  our  caucuses  and 
other  meetings  in  the  evening  and  usually  in  the  schoolhouse. 
The  schoolhouse  is  conveniently  near  to  Baxter's  shop,  so  we 
gather  at  Baxter's  shop.  Baxter  takes  his  lamp  down  from  the 
bracket  above  his  bench,  reflector  and  all,  and  you  will  see  us,  a 
row  of  dusky  figures,  Baxter  in  the  lead,  proceeding  down  the 
roadway  to  the  schoolhouse.  Having  arrived,  someone  scratches 
a  match,  shields  it  with  his  hand  (I  see  yet  the  sudden  fitful  illu- 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 


131 


mination  of  the  brown-bearded,  watchful  faces  of  my  neigh- 
bours!) and  Baxter  guides  us  into  the  schoolhouse — with  its 
shut-in  dusty  odours  of  chalk  and  varnished  desks  and — yes, 
left-over  lunches! 

Baxter's  lamp  stands  on  the  table,  casting  a  vast  shadow  of 
the  chairman  on  the  wall. 


"Come  to  order,"  says  the  chairman,  and  we  have  here  at  this 
moment  in  operation  the  greatest  institution  in  this  round 
world ;  the  institution  of  free  self-government.  Great  in  its  sim- 
pHcity,  great  in  its  unselfishness!  And  Baxter's  old  lamp  with 
its  smoky  tin  reflector,  is  not  that  the  veritable  torch  of  our 
liberties  ? 

This,  I  forgot  to  say,  though  it  makes  no  special  difference — 
a  caucus  would  be  the  same — is  a  school  meeting. 

You  see,  ours  is  a  prolific  community.  When  a  young  man  and 
a  young  woman  are  married  they  think  about  babies;  they  want 


132  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

babies,  and  what  is  more,  they  have  them!  and  love  them 
afterward!  It  is  a  part  of  the  complete  life.  And  having  babies, 
there  must  be  a  place  to  teach  them  to  live. 

Without  more  explanation  you  will  understand  that  we  needed 
an  addition  to  our  schoolhouse.  A  committee  reported  that  the 
amount  required  would  be  $800.  We  talked  it  over.  The  Scotch 
Preacher  was  there  with  a  plan  which  he  tacked  up  on  the  black- 
board and  explained  to  us.  He  told  us  of  seeing  the  stone-mason 
and  the  carpenter,  he  told  us  what  the  seats  would  cost,  and 
the  door  knobs  and  the  hooks  in  the  closet.  We  are  a  careful 
people;  we  want  to  know  where  every  penny  goes! 

"If  we  put  it  all  in  the  budget  this  year  what  will  that  make 
the  rate?"  inquires  a  voice  from  the  end  of  the  room. 

We  don't  look  around;  we  know  the  voice.  And  when  the 
secretary  has  computed  the  rate,  if  you  Usten  closely  you  can 
ilmost  hear  the  buzz  of  multipHcations  and  additions  which  is 
going  on  in  each  man's  head  as  he  calculates  exactly  how  much 
the  addition  will  mean  to  him  in  taxes  on  his  farm,  his  daughter's 
piano,  his  wife's  top-buggy. 

And  many  a  man  is  saying  to  himself: 

"If  we  build  this  addition  to  the  schoolhouse,  I  shall  have  to 
give  up  the  new  overcoat  I  have  counted  upon,  or  Amanda 
won't  be  able  to  get  the  new  cooking-range." 

That's  real  poHtics:  the  voluntary  surrender  of  some  private 
good  for  the  upbuilding  of  some  community  good.  It  is  in  such 
exercises  that  the  fibre  of  democracy  grows  sound  and  strong. 
There  is,  after  all,  in  this  world  no  real  good  for  which  we  do 
not  have  to  surrender  something.  In  the  city  the  average  voter 
is  never  conscious  of  any  surrender.  He  never  realises  that  he  is 
giving  anything  himself  for  good  schools  or  good  streets.  Under 
such  conditions  how  can  you  expect  self-government?  No 
service,  no  reward! 

The  first  meeting  that  I  sat  through  watching  those  bronzed 
farmers  at  work  gave  me  such  a  conception  of  the  true  meaning 
of  self-government  as  I  never  hoped  to  have. 

"This  is  the  place  where  I  belong,"  I  said  to  myself. 

It  was  wonderful  in  that  school  meeting  to  see  how  every 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  133 

essential  element  of  our  government  was  brought  into  play. 
Finance?  We  discussed  whether  we  should  put  the  entire  $800 
into  the  next  year's  budget  or  divide  it,  paying  part  in  cash 
and  bonding  the  district  for  the  remainder.  The  question  of 
credit,  of  interest,  of  the  obligations  of  this  generation  and 
the  next,  were  all  discussed.  At  one  time  long  ago  I  was  amazed 
when  I  heard  my  neighbours  arguing  in  Baxter's  shop  about  the 
issuance  of  certain  bonds  by  the  United  States  government:  how 
completely  they  understood  it!  I  know  now  where  they  got 
that  understanding.  Right  in  the  school  meetings  and  town 
caucuses  where  they  raise  money  yearly  for  the  expenses  of 
our  small  government!  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  city. 

The  progress  of  a  people  can  best  be  judged  by  those  things 
which  they  accept  as  matters-of-fact.  It  was  amazing  to  me, 
coming  from  the  city,  and  before  I  understood,  to  see  how  in- 
grained had  become  some  of  the  principles  which  only  a  few 
years  ago  were  fiercely-mooted  problems.  It  gave  me  a  new  pride 
in  my  country,  a  new  appreciation  of  the  steps  in  civilisation 
which  we  have  already  permanently  gained.  Not  a  question  have 
I  ever  heard  in  any  school  meeting  of  the  necessity  of  educating 
every  American  child — at  any  cost.  Think  of  it!  Think  how  far 
we  have  come  in  that  respect,  in  seventy — yes,  fifty — years.  Uni- 
versal education  has  become  a  settled  axiom  of  our  life. 

And  there  was  another  point— so  common  now  that  we  do 
not  appreciate  the  significance  of  it.  I  refer  to  majority  rule.  In 
our  school  meeting  we  were  voting  money  out  of  men's  pockets 
— money  that  we  all  needed  for  private  expenses — and  yet  the 
moment  the  minority,  after  full  and  honest  discussion,  failed 
to  maintain  its  contention  in  opposition  to  the  new  building,  it 
yielded  with  perfect  good  humour  and  went  on  with  the  dis- 
cussion of  other  questions.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  in  the 
light  of  history,  is  not  that  a  wonderful  thing  ? 

One  of  the  chief  property  owners  in  our  neighbourhood  is  a 
rather  crabbed  old  bachelor.  Having  no  children  and  heavy  taxes 
to  pay,  he  looks  with  jaundiced  eye  on  additions  to  schoolhouses. 
He  will  object  and  growl  and  growl  and  object,  and  yet  pin 
him  down  as  I  have  seen  the  Scotch  Preacher  pin  him  more 


134  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

than  once,  he  will  admit  that  children  ("o£  course,"  he  will  say, 
"certainly,  of  course")  must  be  educated. 

"For  the  good  of  bachelors  as  well  as  other  people?"  the  Scotch 
Preacher  will  press  it  home. 

"Certainly,  of  course." 

And  when  the  final  issue  comes,  after  full  discussion,  after  he 
has  tried  to  lop  off  a  few  yards  of  blackboard  or  order  cheaper 
desks  or  dispense  with  the  clothes-closet,  he  votes  for  the  addi- 
tion with  the  rest  of  us. 

It  is  simply  amazing  to  see  how  much  grows  out  of  those  dis- 
cussions— how  much  of  that  social  sympathy  and  understanding 
which  is  the  very  tap-root  of  democracy.  It's  cheaper  to  put  up  a 
miserable  shack  of  an  addition.  Why  not  do  it?  So  we  discuss 
architecture — blindly,  it  is  true;  we  don't  know  the  books  on 
the  subject — but  we  grope  for  the  big  true  things,  and  by  our 
own  discussion  we  educate  ourselves  to  know  why  a  good  build- 
ing is  better  than  a  bad  one.  Heating  and  ventilation  in  their 
relation  to  health,  the  use  of  "fad  studies" — how  I  have  heard 
those  things  discussed! 

How  Dr.  North,  who  has  now  left  us  forever,  shone  in  those 
meetings,  and  Charles  Baxter  and  the  Scotch  Preacher— broad 
men,  every  one — how  they  have  explained  and  argued,  with 
what  patience  have  they  brought  into  that  small  schoolhouse, 
lighted  by  Charles  Baxter's  lamp,  the  grandest  conceptions  of 
human  society — not  in  the  big  words  of  the  books,  but  in  the 
simple,  concrete  language  of  our  common  Hfe. 

"Why  teach  physiology?" 

What  a  talk  Dr.  North  once  gave  us  on  that! 

"Why  pay  a  teacher  $40  a  month  when  one  can  be  had  for 

$30?" 

You  should  have  heard  the  Scotch  Preacher  answer  that 
question!  Many  a  one  of  us  went  away  with  some  of  the  edu- 
cation which  we  had  come,  somewhat  grudgingly,  to  buy  for 
our  children. 

These  are  our  political  bosses:  these  unknown  patriots,  who 
preach  the  invisible  patriotism  which  expresses  itself  not  in 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  135 

flags  and  oratory,  but  in  the  quiet  daily  surrender  of  private 
advantage  to  the  pubhc  good. 

There  is,  after  all,  no  such  thing  as  perfect  equaUty;  there 
must  be  leaders,  flag-bearers,  bosses — whatever  you  call  them. 
Some  men  have  a  genius  for  leading;  others  for  following; 
each  is  necessary  and  dependent  upon  the  other.  In  cities,  that 
leadership  is  often  perverted  and  used  to  evil  ends.  Neither 
leaders  nor  followers  seem  to  understand.  In  its  essence  poli- 
tics is  merely  a  mode  of  expressing  human  sympathy.  In  the 
country  many  and  many  a  leader  Hke  Baxter  works  faithfully 
year  in  and  year  out,  posting  notices  of  caucuses,  school  meet- 
ings and  elections,  opening  cold  schoolhouses,  talking  to  candi- 
dates, prodding  selfish  voters— and  mostly  without  reward. 
Occasionally  they  are  elected  to  petty  offices  where  they  do  far 
more  work  than  they  are  paid  for  (we  have  our  eyes  on  'em) ; 
often  they  are  rewarded  by  the  power  and  place  which  leader- 
ship gives  them  among  their  neighbours,  and  sometimes — and 
that  is  Charles  Baxter's  case — they  simply  like  it!  Baxter  is  of 
the  social  temperament:  it  is  the  natural  expression  of  his  per- 
sonaHty.  As  for  thinking  of  himself  as  a  patriot,  he  would  never 
dream  of  it.  Work  with  the  hands,  close  touch  with  the  com- 
mon life  of  the  soil,  has  given  him  much  of  the  true  wisdom 
of  experience.  He  knows  us  and  we  know  him;  he  carries  the 
banner,  holds  it  as  high  as  he  knows  how,  and  we  follow. 

Whether  there  can  be  a  real  democracy  (as  in  a  city)  where 
there  is  not  that  elbow-knowledge,  that  close  neighbourhood 
sympathy,  that  conscious  surrender  of  little  personal  goods 
for  bigger  public  ones,  I  don't  know. 

We  haven't  many  foreigners  in  our  district,  but  all  three  were 
there  on  the  night  we  voted  for  the  addition.  They  are  Polish. 
Each  has  a  farm  where  the  whole  family  works — and  puts  on  a 
little  more  Americanism  each  year.  They're  good  people.  It  is 
surprising  how  much  all  these  Poles,  ItaUans,  Germans  and 
others,  are  like  us,  how  perfectly  human  they  are,  when  we 
know  them  personally!  One  Pole  here,  named  Kausky,  I  have 
come  to  know  pretty  well,  and  I  declare  I  have  forgotten  that  he 
is  a  Pole.  There's  nothing  like  the  rub  of  democracy!  The  reason 


136  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

why  we  are  so  suspicious  of  the  foreigners  in  our  cities  is  that 
they  are  crowded  together  in  such  vast,  unknown,  undigested 
masses.  We  have  swallowed  them  too  fast,  and  we  suffer  from  a 
sort  of  national  dyspepsia. 

Here  in  the  country  we  promptly  digest  our  foreigners  and 
they  make  as  good  Americans  as  anybody. 

"Catch  a  foreigner  when  he  first  comes  here,"  says  Charles 
Baxter,  "and  he  takes  to  our  poUtics  like  a  fish  to  water." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  says  they  "gape  for  education."  And 
when  I  see  Kausky's  six  children  going  by  in  the  morning  to 
school,  all  their  round,  sleepy,  fat  faces  shining  with  soap,  I 
believe  it!  Baxter  tells  with  humour  how  he  persuaded  Kausky 
to  vote  for  the  addition  to  the  schoolhouse.  It  was  a  pretty  stifl 
tax  for  the  poor  fellow  to  pay,  but  Baxter  "figgered  children  with 
him,"  as  he  said.  With  six  to  educate,  Baxter  showed  him 
that  he  was  actually  getting  a  good  deal  more  than  he  paid  for! 

Be  it  far  from  me  to  pretend  that  we  are  always  right  or 
that  we  have  arrived  in  our  country  at  the  perfection  of  self- 
government.  I  do  not  wish  to  imply  that  all  of  our  people  are 
interested,  that  all  attend  the  caucuses  and  school-meetings 
(some  of  the  most  prominent  never  come  near — they  stay  away, 
and  if  things  don't  go  right  they  blame  Charles  Baxter!).  Nor 
must  I  over-emphasise  the  seriousness  of  our  public  interest.  But 
we  certainly  have  here,  if  anywhere  in  this  nation,  real  self- 
government.  Growth  is  a  slow  process.  We  often  fail  in  our 
election  of  delegates  to  State  conventions;  we  sometimes  vote 
wrong  in  national  affairs.  It  is  an  easy  thing  to  think  school 
district;  difficult,  indeed,  to  think  State  or  nation.  But  we 
grow.  When  we  make  mistakes,  it  is  not  because  we  are  evil, 
but  because  we  don't  know.  Once  we  get  a  clear  understanding 
of  the  right  or  wrong  of  any  question  you  can  depend  upon  us 
— absolutely — to  vote  for  what  is  right.  With  more  education  we 
shall  be  able  to  think  in  larger  and  larger  circles — until  we  be- 
come, finally,  really  national  in  our  interests  and  sympathies. 
Whenever  a  man  comes  along  who  knows  how  simple  we  are, 
and  how  much  we  really  want  to  do  right,  if  we  can  be  con- 
vinced that  a  thing  is  right — who  explains  how  the  railroad 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  137 

question,  for  example,  afifects  us  in  our  intimate  daily  lives,  what 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  it  are,  why,  we  can  understand  and  do 
understand — and  we  are  ready  to  act. 

It  is  easy  to  rally  to  a  flag  in  times  of  excitement.  The  pa- 
triotism of  drums  and  marching  regiments  is  cheap;  blood  is 
material  and  cheap;  physical  weariness  and  hunger  are  cheap. 
But  the  struggle  I  speak  of  is  not  cheap.  It  is  dramatised  by  few 
symbols.  It  deals  with  hidden  spiritual  quahties  within  the 
conscience  of  men.  Its  heroes  are  yet  unsung  and  unhonoured. 
No  combats  in  all  the  world's  history  were  ever  fought  so  high 
upward  in  the  spiritual  air  as  these;  and,  surely,  not  for  nothing! 

And  so,  out  of  my  experience  both  in  city  and  country,  I  feel — 
yes,  I  \now — that  the  real  motive  power  of  this  democracy  lies 
back  in  the  little  country  neighbourhoods  like  ours  where  men 
gather  in  dim  schoolhouses  and  practice  the  invisible  patriotism 
of  surrender  and  service. 


XIV 
THE  HARVEST 

"Oh,  Universe,  what  thou  wishest,  1  wish" 

— MARCUS   AURELIUS 

JL  COME  TO  THE  END  of  thcsc  Advcntures  with  a  regret  I  can 
scarcely  express.  I,  at  least,  have  enjoyed  them.  I  began  setting 
them  down  with  no  thought  of  pubUcation,  but  for  my  own 
enjoyment;  the  possibiHty  of  a  book  did  not  suggest  itself  until 
afterwards.  I  have  tried  to  relate  the  experiences  of  that  secret, 
elusive,  invisible  life  which  in  every  man  is  so  far  more  real,  so 
far  more  important  than  his  visible  activities — the  real  ex- 
pression of  a  life  much  occupied  in  other  employment. 

When  I  first  came  to  this  farm,  I  came  empty-handed.  I  was 
the  veritable  pattern  of  the  city-made  failure.  I  believed  that 
life  had  nothing  more  in  store  for  me.  I  was  worn  out  physically, 

138 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  139 

mentally  and,  indeed,  morally.  I  had  diligently  planned  for 
Success;  and  I  had  reaped  defeat.  I  came  here  without  plans. 
I  plowed  and  harrowed  and  planted,  expecting  nothing.  In 
due  time  I  began  to  reap.  And  it  has  been  a  growing  marvel  to 
me,  the  diverse  and  unexpected  crops  that  I  have  produced 
within  these  uneven  acres  of  earth.  With  sweat  I  planted  corn, 
and  I  have  here  a  crop  not  only  of  corn  but  of  happiness  and 
hope.  My  tilled  fields  have  miraculously  sprung  up  to  friends! 

This  book  is  one  of  the  unexpected  products  of  my  farm.  It 
is  this  way  with  the  farmer.  After  the  work  of  planting  and 
cultivating,  after  the  rain  has  fallen  in  his  fields,  after  the  sun 
has  warmed  them,  after  the  new  green  leaves  have  broken  the 
earth — one  day  he  stands  looking  out  with  a  certain  new  joy 
across  his  acres  (the  wind  bends  and  half  turns  the  long  blades 
of  the  corn)  and  there  springs  up  within  him  a  song  of  the 
fields.  No  matter  how  little  poetic,  how  little  articulate  he  is,  the 
song  rises  irrepressibly  in  his  heart,  and  he  turns  aside  from  his 
task  with  a  new  glow  of  fulfillment  and  contentment.  At  harvest 
time  in  our  country  I  hear,  or  I  imagine  I  hear,  a  sort  of  chorus 
rising  over  all  the  hills,  and  I  meet  no  man  who  is  not,  deep  down 
within  him,  a  singer!  So  song  follows  work:  so  art  grows  out  of 
life! 

And  the  friends  I  have  made!  They  have  come  to  me  naturally, 
as  the  corn  grows  in  my  fields  or  the  wind  blows  in  my  trees. 
Some  strange  potency  abides  within  the  soil  of  this  earth!  When 
two  men  stoop  (there  must  be  stooping)  and  touch  it  together, 
a  magnetic  current  is  set  up  between  them:  a  flow  of  common 
understanding  and  confidence.  I  would  call  the  attention  of  all 
great  Scientists,  Philosophers,  and  Theologians  to  this  phenome- 
non: it  will  repay  investigation.  It  is  at  once  the  rarest  and  the 
commonest  thing  I  know.  It  shows  that  down  deep  within  us, 
where  we  really  live,  we  are  all  a  good  deal  aUke.  We  have 
much  the  same  instincts,  hopes,  joys,  sorrows.  If  only  it  were 
not  for  the  outward  things  that  we  commonly  look  upon  as 
important  (which  are  in  reaUty  not  at  all  important)  we  might 
come  together  without  fear,  vanity,  envy,  or  prejudice  and  bt 
friends.  And  what  a  world  it  would  be!  If  civilisation  means 


140  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

anything  at  all  it  means  the  increasing  ability  of  men  to  look 
through  material  possessions,  through  clothing,  through  differ- 
ences of  speech  and  colour  of  skin,  and  to  see  the  genuine  man 
that  abides  within  each  of  us.  It  means  an  escape  from  symbols! 

I  tell  this  merely  to  show  what  surprising  and  unexpected 
things  have  grown  out  of  my  farm.  All  along  I  have  had  more 
than  I  bargained  for.  From  now  on  I  shall  marvel  at  nothing! 
When  I  ordered  my  own  life  I  failed;  now  that  I  work  from 
day  to  day,  doing  that  which  I  can  do  best  and  which  most 
dehghts  me,  I  am  rewarded  in  ways  that  I  could  not  have 
imagined.  Why,  it  would  not  surprise  me  if  heaven  were  at  the 
end  of  all  this! 

Now,  I  am  not  so  foolish  as  to  imagine  that  a  farm  is  a  perfect 
place.  In  these  Adventures  I  have  emphasised  perhaps  too 
forcibly  the  joyful  and  pleasant  features  of  my  life.  In  what  I 
have  written  I  have  naturally  chosen  only  those  things  which 
were  most  interesting  and  charming.  My  life  has  not  been 
without  discouragement  and  loss  and  loneliness  (loneliness 
most  of  all).  I  have  enjoyed  the  hard  work;  the  little  troubles 
have  troubled  me  more  than  the  big  ones.  I  detest  unharnessing 
a  muddy  horse  in  the  rain!  I  don't  like  chickens  in  the  barn. 
And  somehow  Harriet  uses  an  inordinate  amount  of  kindUng 
wood.  But  once  in  the  habit,  unpleasant  things  have  a  way  of 
fading  quickly  and  quietly  from  the  memory. 

And  you  see  after  living  so  many  years  in  the  city  the  worst 
experience  on  the  farm  is  a  sort  of  joy! 

In  most  men  as  I  come  to  know  them — I  mean  men  who  dare 
to  look  themselves  in  the  eye — I  find  a  deep  desire  for  more 
naturalness,  more  directness.  How  weary  we  all  grow  of  this 
fabric  of  deception  which  is  called  modern  life.  How  passion- 
ately we  desire  to  escape  but  cannot  see  the  way!  How  our 
hearts  beat  with  sympathy  when  we  find  a  man  who  has  turned 
his  back  upon  it  all  and  who  says  "I  will  live  it  no  longer."  How 
we  flounder  in  possessions  as  in  a  dark  and  suffocating  bog, 
wasting  our  energies  not  upon  life  but  upon  things.  Instead  of 
employing  our  houses,  our  cities,  our  gold,  our  clothing,  we  let 
these  inanimate  things  possess  and  employ  us— to  what  utter 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  141 

weariness.  "Blessed  be  nothing,"  sighs  a  dear  old  lady  of  my 
knowledge. 

Of  all  ways  of  escape  I  know,  the  best,  though  it  is  far  from 
perfection,  is  the  farm.  There  a  man  may  yield  himself  most 
nearly  to  the  quiet  and  orderly  processes  of  nature.  He  may  at- 
tain most  nearly  to  that  equilibrium  between  the  material  and 
spiritual,  with  time  for  the  exactions  of  the  first,  and  leisure 
for  the  growth  of  the  second,  which  is  the  ideal  of  life. 

In  times  past  most  farming  regions  in  this  country  have  suf- 
fered the  disadvantages  of  isolation,  the  people  have  dwelt  far 
distant  from  one  another  and  from  markets,  they  have  had  Httle 
to  stimulate  them  intellectually  or  socially.  Strong  and  peculiar 
individuals  and  families  were  often  developed  at  the  expense 
of  a  friendly  community  life:  neighbourhood  feuds  were  com- 
mon. Country  life  was  marked  with  the  rigidity  of  a  hard  pro- 
vinciaUsm.  All  this,  however,  is  rapidly  changing.  The  closer 
settlement  of  the  land,  the  rural  delivery  of  mails  (the  morning 
newspaper  reaches  the  tin  box  at  the  end  of  my  lane  at  noon), 
the  farmer's  telephone,  the  spreading  country  trolleys,  more 
schools  and  churches,  and  cheaper  railroad  rates,  have  all  helped 
to  bring  the  farmer's  life  well  within  the  stimulating  currents 
of  world  thought  without  robbing  it  of  its  ancient  advantages. 
And  those  advantages  are  incalculable:  Time  first  for  thought 
and  reflection  (narrow  streams  cut  deep)  leading  to  the  growth 
of  a  sturdy  freedom  of  action — which  is,  indeed,  a  natural 
characteristic  of  the  man  who  has  his  feet  firmly  planted  upon 
his  own  land. 

A  city  hammers  and  polishes  its  denizens  into  a  defined 
model:  it  worships  standardisation;  but  the  country  encourages 
differentiation,  it  loves  new  types.  Thus  it  is  that  so  many  great 
and  original  men  have  lived  their  youth  upon  the  land.  It  would 
be  impossible  to  imagine  Abraham  Lincoln  brought  up  in  a 
street  of  tenements.  Family  life  on  the  farm  is  highly  educative; 
there  is  more  discipline  for  a  boy  in  the  continuous  care  of  a 
cow  or  a  horse  than  in  many  a  term  of  school.  Industry,  patience, 
perseverance  are  qualities  inherent  in  the  very  atmosphere  of 
country  life.  The  so-called  manual  training  of  city  schools  is 


142 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


only  a  poor  makeshift  for  developing  in  the  city  boy  those  habits 
which  the  country  boy  acquires  naturally  in  his  daily  life.  An 
honest,  hard-working  country  training  is  the  best  inheritance  a 
father  can  leave  his  son. 

And  yet  a  farm  is  only  an  opportunity,  a  tool.  A  cornfield,  a 
plow,  a  woodpile,  an  oak  tree,  will  cure  no  man  unless  he  have 
it  in  himself  to  be  cured.  The  truth  is  that  no  life,  and  least  of 
all  a  farmer's  life,  is  simple — ^unless  it  is  simple.  I  know  a  man 


and  his  wife  who  came  out  here  to  the  country  with  the  avowed 
purpose  of  becoming,  forthwith,  simple.  They  were  unable  to 
keep  the  chickens  out  of  their  summer  kitchen.  They  discovered 
microbes  in  the  well,  and  mosquitoes  in  the  cistern,  and  wasps 
in  the  garret.  Owing  to  the  resemblance  of  the  seeds,  their 
radishes  turned  out  to  be  turnips!  The  last  I  heard  of  them  they 
were  living  snugly  in  a  flat  in  Sixteenth  Street — all  their  troubles 
solved  by  a  dumb-waiter. 

The  great  point  of  advantage  in  the  life  of  the  country  is 
that  if  a  man  is  in  reaUty  simple,  if  he  love  true  contentment, 
it  is  the  place  of  all  places  where  he  can  live  his  life  most  freely 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  143 

and  fully,  where  he  can  grow.  The  city  affords  no  such  oppor- 
tunity; indeed,  it  often  destroys,  by  the  seductiveness  with 
which  it  flaunts  its  carnal  graces,  the  desire  for  the  higher  life 
which  animates  every  good  man. 

While  on  the  subject  of  simplicity  it  may  be  well  to  observe 
that  simplicity  does  not  necessarily,  as  some  of  those  who 
escape  from  the  city  seem  to  think,  consist  in  doing  without 
things,  but  rather  in  the  proper  use  of  things.  One  cannot  return, 
unless  with  affectation,  to  the  crudities  of  a  former  existence.  We 
do  not  believe  in  Diogenes  and  his  tub.  Do  you  not  think  the 
good  Lord  has  given  us  the  telephone  (that  we  may  better  reach 
that  elbow-rub  of  brotherhood  which  is  the  highest  of  human 
ideals)  and  the  railroad  (that  we  may  widen  our  human 
knowledge  and  sympathy) — and  even  the  motor-car?  (though, 
indeed,  I  have  sometimes  imagined  that  the  motor-cars  passing 
this  way  had  a  different  origin!).  He  may  have  given  these 
things  to  us  too  fast,  faster  than  we  can  bear;  but  is  that  any 
reason  why  we  should  denounce  them  all  and  return  to  the 
old,  crude,  time-consuming  ways  of  our  ancestors?  I  am  no 
reactionary.  I  do  not  go  back.  I  neglect  no  tool  of  progress.  I 
am  too  eager  to  know  every  wonder  in  this  universe.  The  motor- 
car, if  I  had  one,  could  not  carry  me  fast  enough!  I  must  yet 
fly! 

After  my  experience  in  the  countryj  if  I  were  to  be  cross- 
examined  as  to  the  requisites  of  a  farm,  I  should  say  that  the 
chief  thing  to  be  desired  in  any  sort  of  agriculture,  is  good 
health  in  the  farmer.  What,  after  all,  can  touch  that!  How 
many  of  our  joys  that  we  think  intellectual  are  purely  physical! 
This  joy  o'  the  morning  that  the  poet  carols  about  so  cheer- 
fully, is  often  nothing  more  than  the  exuberance  produced  by  a 
good  hot  breakfast.  Going  out  of  my  kitchen  door  some  morn- 
ings and  standing  for  a  moment,  while  I  survey  the  green  and 
spreading  fields  of  my  farm,  it  seems  to  me  truly  as  if  all 
nature  were  making  a  bow  to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  never 
was  a  better  cow  than  mine,  never  a  more  really  perfect  horse, 
and  as  for  pigs,  could  any  in  this  world  herald  my  approach 
with  more  cheerful  gruntings  and  squealings! 


144  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

But  there  are  other  requisites  for  a  farm.  It  must  not  be  too 
large,  else  it  will  keep  you  away  from  your  friends.  Provide  a 
town  not  too  far  off  (and  yet  not  too  near)  where  you  can  buy 
your  flour  and  sell  your  grain.  If  there  is  a  railroad  convenient 
(though  not  so  near  that  the  whistling  of  the  engines  reaches 
you),  that  is  an  added  advantage.  Demand  a  few  good  old  oak 
trees,  or  walnuts,  or  even  elms  will  do.  No  well-regulated  farm 
should  be  without  trees;  and  having  secured  the  oaks — buy  your 
fuel  of  your  neighbours.  Thus  you  will  be  blessed  with  beauty 
both  summer  and  winter. 

As  for  neighbours,  accept  those  nearest  at  hand;  you  will  find 
them  surprisingly  human,  like  yourself.  If  you  like  them  you 
will  be  surprised  to  find  how  much  they  all  like  you  (and  will 
upon  occasion  lend  you  a  spring-tooth  harrow  or  a  butter  tub, 
or  help  you  with  your  plowing);  but  if  you  hate  them  they 
will  return  your  hatred  with  interest.  I  have  discovered  that 
those  who  travel  in  pursuit  of  better  neighbours  never  find  them. 

Somewhere  on  every  farm,  along  with  the  other  implements, 
there  should  be  a  row  of  good  books,  which  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  rust  with  disuse:  a  book,  like  a  hoe,  grows  brighter 
with  employment.  And  no  farm,  even  in  this  country  where  we 
enjoy  the  even  balance  of  the  seasons,  rain  and  shine,  shine  and 
rain,  should  be  devoid  of  that  irrigation  from  the  currents  of 
the  world's  thought  which  is  so  essential  to  the  complete  life. 
From  the  papers  which  the  postman  puts  in  the  box  flow  the 
true  waters  of  civilisation.  You  will  find  within  their  columns 
how  to  be  good  or  how  to  make  pies :  you  will  get  out  of  them 
what  you  look  for!  And  finally,  down  the  road  from  your  farm, 
so  that  you  can  hear  the  bell  on  Sunday  mornings,  there  should 
be  a  little  church.  It  will  do  you  good  even  though,  Hke  me,  you 
do  not  often  attend.  It's  a  sort  of  Ark  of  the  Covenant;  and 
when  you  get  to  it,  you  will  find  therein  the  True  Spirit — if 
you  take  it  with  you  when  you  leave  home.  Of  course  you  will 
look  for  good  land  and  comfortable  buildings  when  you  buy 
your  farm:  they  are,  indeed,  prime  requisites.  I  have  put  them 
last  for  the  reason  that  they  are  so  often  first.  I  have  observed, 
however,  that  the  joy  of  the  farmer  is  by  no  means  in  propor- 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT  145 

tion  to  the  area  of  his  arable  land.  It  is  often  a  nice  matter  to 
decide  between  acres  and  contentment:  men  perish  from  too 
much  as  well  as  from  too  little.  And  if  it  be  possible  there  should 
be  a  long  table  in  the  dining-room  and  little  chairs  around  it, 
and  small  beds  upstairs,  and  young  voices  caUing  at  their  play 
in  the  fields — if  it  be  possible. 

Sometimes  I  say  to  myself:  I  have  grasped  happiness!  Here  it 
is;  I  have  it.  And  yet,  it  always  seems  at  that  moment  of  com- 
plete fulfillment  as  though  my  hand  trembled,  that  I  might  not 
take  it! 

I  wonder  if  you  recall  the  story  of  Christian  and  Hopeful, 
how,  standing  on  the  hill  Clear  (as  we  do  sometimes — at  our 
best)  they  looked  for  the  gates  of  the  Celestial  City  (as  we  look 
—how  fondly!): 

"Then  they  essayed  to  look,  but  the  remembrance  of  that  last 
thing  that  the  shepherds  had  showed  them  made  their  hands 
shake,  by  means  of  which  impediment  they  could  not  look  steadily 
through  the  glass:  yet  they  thought  they  saw  something  like  the 
gate,  and  also  some  of  the  glory  of  the  place." 

How  often  I  have  thought  that  I  saw  some  of  the  glory  of  the 
place  (looking  from  the  hill  Clear)  and  how  often,  lifting  the 
glass,  my  hand  has  trembled! 


BOOK  II 
ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


I 

AN  ADVENTURE  IN  FRATERNITY 


XHis,  I  am  firmly  convinced,  is  a  strange  world,  as  strange  a 
one  as  I  was  ever  in.  Looking  about  me  I  perceive  that  the 
simplest  things  are  the  most  difficult,  the  plainest  things,  the 
darkest,  the  commonest  things,  the  rarest. 

I  have  had  an  amusing  adventure — and  made  a  friend. 

This  morning  when  I  went  to  town  for  my  marketing  I  met  a 
man  who  was  a  Mason,  an  Oddfellow  and  an  Elk,  and  who 
wore  the  evidences  of  his  various  memberships  upon  his  coat. 
He  asked  me  what  lodge  I  belonged  to,  and  he  slapped  me  on 
the  back  in  the  heartiest  manner,  as  though  he  had  known  me 
intimately  for  a  long  time.  (I  may  say,  in  passing,  that  he  was 
trying  to  sell  me  a  new  kind  of  corn-planter.)  I  could  not  help 
feeling  complimented — both  complimented  and  abashed.  For 
I  am  not  a  Mason,  or  an  Oddfellow,  or  an  Elk.  When  I  told  him 
so  he  seemed  much  surprised  and  disappointed. 

"You  ought  to  belong  to  one  of  our  lodges,"  he  said.  "You'd 
be  sure  of  having  loyal  friends  wherever  you  go. 

He  told  me  all  about  his  grips  and  passes  and  benefits;  he 
told  me  how  much  it  would  cost  me  to  get  in  and  how  much 
more  to  stay  in  and  how  much  for  a  uniform  (which  was  not 

149 


150  ADVE^^TUR£S  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

compulsory).  He  told  me  about  the  fine  funeral  the  Masons 
would  give  me;  he  said  that  the  Elks  would  care  for  my  widow 
and  children. 

"You're  just  the  sort  of  a  man,"  he  said,  "that  we'd  like  to 
have  in  our  lodge.  I'd  enjoy  giving  you  the  grip  of  fellowship." 

He  was  a  rotund,  good-humoured  man  with  a  shining  red 
nose  and  a  husky  voice.  He  grew  so  much  interested  in  telling 
me  about  his  lodges  that  I  think  (I  thinJ()  he  forgot  momentarily 
that  he  was  selling  corn-planters,  which  was  certainly  to  his 
credit. 

As  I  drove  homeward  this  afternoon  I  could  not  help  thinking 
of  the  Masons,  the  Oddfellows  and  the  Elks— and  curiously  not 
without  a  sense  of  depression.  I  wondered  if  my  friend  of  the 
corn-planters  had  found  the  pearl  of  great  price  that  I  have 
been  looking  for  so  long.  For  is  not  friendliness  the  thing  of 
all  things  that  is  most  pleasant  in  this  world  ?  Sometimes  it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  the  faculty  of  reaching  out  and  touching 
one's  neighbour  where  he  really  lives  is  the  greatest  of  human 
achievements.  And  it  was  with  an  indescribable  depression  that 
I  wondered  if  these  Masons  and  Oddfellows  and  Elks  had  in 
reahty  caught  the  Elusive  Secret  and  confined  it  within  the 
insurmountable  and  impenetrable  walls  of  their  mysteries, 
secrets,  grips,  passes,  benefits. 

"It  must,  indeed,"  I  said  to  myself,  "be  a  precious  sort  of 
fraternity  that  they  choose  to  protect  so  sedulously." 

I  felt  as  though  life  contained  something  that  I  was  not 
permitted  to  live.  I  recalled  how  my  friend  of  the  corn-planters 
had  wished  to  give  me  the  grip  of  the  fellowship — only  he  could 
not.  I  was  not  entitled  to  it.  I  knew  no  grips  or  passes.  I  wore 
no  uniform. 

"It  is  a  compHcated  matter,  this  fellowship,"  I  said  to  myself. 

So  I  jogged  along  feeling  rather  blue,  marveUing  that  those 
things  which  often  seem  so  simple  should  be  in  reality  so  diffi- 
cult. 

But  on  such  an  afternoon  as  this  no  man  could  possibly  remain 
long  depressed.  The  moment  I  passed  the  straggling  outskirts  of 
the  town  and  came  to  the  open  road,  the  light  and  glow  of  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  151 

coufltryside  came  in  upon  me  with  a  newness  and  sweetness 
impossible  to  describe.  Looking  out  across  the  wide  fields  I 
could  see  the  vivid  green  of  the  young  wheat  upon  the  brown 
soil;  in  a  distant  high  pasture  the  cows  had  been  turned  out 
to  the  freshening  grass;  a  late  pool  glistened  in  the  afternoon 
sunshine.  And  the  crows  were  calling,  and  the  robins  had  begun 
to  come:  and  oh,  the  moist,  cool  freshness  of  the  air!  In  the 
highest  heaven  (never  so  high  as  at  this  time  of  the  year)  floated 
a  few  gauzy  clouds:  the  whole  world  was  busy  with  spring! 

I  straightened  up  in  my  buggy  and  drew  in  a  good  breath. 
The  mare,  half  startled,  pricked  up  her  ears  and  began  to  trot. 
She,  too,  felt  the  spring. 


"Here,"  I  said  aloud,  "is  where  I  belong.  I  am  native  to  this 
place;  of  all  these  things  I  am  a  part." 

But  presently — how  one's  mind  courses  back,  like  some  keen- 
scented  hound,  for  lost  trails — I  began  to  think  again  of  my 
friend's  lodges.  And  do  you  know,  I  had  lost  every  trace  of  de- 
pression. The  whole  matter  lay  as  clear  in  my  mind,  as  little 
complicated,  as  the  countryside  which  met  my  eye  so  openly. 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  "I  need  not  envy  my  friend's 
lodges.  I  myself  belong  to  the  greatest  of  all  fraternal  orders. 
I  am  a  member  of  the  Universal  Brotherhood  of  Men." 

It  came  to  me  so  humorously  as  I  sat  there  in  my  buggy  that 
I  could  not  help  laughing  aloud.  And  I  was  so  deeply  absorbed 
with  the  idea  that  I  did  not  at  first  see  the  whiskery  old  man 
who  was  coming  my  way  in  a  farm  wagon.  He  looked  at  me 


152  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

curiously.  As  he  passed,  giving  me  half  the  road,  I  glanced  up 
at  him  and  called  out  cheerfully : 

"How  are  you.  Brother?" 

You  should  have  seen  him  look — and  look — and  look.  After  I 
had  passed  I  glanced  back.  He  had  stopped  his  team,  turned 
half  way  around  in  his  high  seat  and  was  watching  me — for  he 
did  not  understand. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  I  said  to  myself,  "I  am  intoxicated — with 
the  wine  of  spring!" 

I  reflected  upon  his  astonishment  when  I  addressed  him  as 
"Brother."  A  strange  word!  He  did  not  recognize  it.  He  actually 
suspected  that  he  was  not  my  Brother. 

So  I  jogged  onward  thinking  about  my  fraternity,  and  I 
don't  know  when  I  have  had  more  joy  of  an  idea.  It  seemed  so 
explanatory! 

"I  am  glad,"  I  said  to  myself,  "that  I  am  a  Member.  I  am 
sure  the  Masons  have  no  such  benefits  to  ofler  in  their  lodges 
as  we  have  in  ours.  And  we  do  not  require  money  of  farmers 
(who  have  little  to  pay).  We  will  accept  corn,  or  hen*s  eggs,  or 
a  sandwich  at  the  door,  and  as  for  a  cheerful  glance  of  the 
eye,  it  is  for  us  the  best  of  minted  coin." 

(Item:  to  remember.  When  a  man  asks  money  for  any  good 
thing,  beware  of  it.  You  can  get  a  better  for  nothing.) 

I  cannot  undertake  to  tell  where  the  amusing  reflections  which 
grew  out  of  my  idea  would  finally  have  led  me  if  I  had  not  been 
interrupted.  Just  as  I  approached  the  Patterson  farm,  near  the 
bridge  which  crosses  the  creek,  I  saw  a  loaded  wagon  standing 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill  ahead.  The  horses  seemed  to  have  been 
unhooked,  for  the  tongue  was  down,  and  a  man  was  on  his 
knees  between  the  front  wheels. 

Involuntarily  I  said : 

"Another  member  of  my  society:  and  in  distress!" 

I  had  a  heart  at  that  moment  for  anything.  I  felt  like  some  old 
neighbourly  Knight  traveUing  the  earth  in  search  of  adventure. 
If  there  had  been  a  distressed  mistress  handy  at  that  moment, 
I  feel  quite  certain  I  could  have  died  for  her— if  absolutely 
necessary. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  153 

As  I  drove  alongside,  the  stocky,  stout  lad  of  a  farmer  in  his 
brown  duck  coat  lined  with  sheep's  wool,  came  up  from 
between  the  wheels.  His  cap  was  awry,  his  trousers  were 
muddy  at  the  knees  where  he  had  knelt  in  the  moist  road, 
and  his  face  was  red  and  angry. 

A  true  knight,  I  thought  to  myself,  looks  not  to  the  beauty 
of  his  lady,  but  only  to  her  distress. 

"What's  the  matter.  Brother?"  I  asked  in  the  friendliest 
manner. 

"Bolt  gone,"  he  said  gruffly,  "and  I  got  to  get  to  town  before 
nightfall." 

"Get  in,"  I  said,  "and  we'll  drive  back.  We  shall  see  it  in 
the  road." 

So  he  got  in.  I  drove  the  mare  slowly  up  the  hill  and  we  both 
leaned  out  and  looked.  And  presently  there  in  the  road  the  bolt 
lay.  My  farmer  got  out  and  picked  it  up. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  was  afraid  it  was  clean  busted.  I'm 
obliged  to  you  for  the  lift." 

"Hold  on,"  I  said,  "get  in,  I'll  take  you  back." 

"Oh,  I  can  walk." 

"But  I  can  drive  you  faster,"  I  said,  "and  you've  got  to  get 
the  load  to  town  before  nightfall." 

I  could  not  let  him  go  without  taking  tribute.  No  matter 
what  the  story  books  say,  I  am  firmly  of  the  opinion  that  no 
gentle  knight  (who  was  human)  ever  parted  with  the  fair 
lady  whose  misery  he  had  reUeved  without  exchanging  the 
time  of  day,  or  offering  her  a  bun  from  his  dinner  pail,  or 
finding  out  (for  instance)  if  she  were  maid  or  married. 

My  farmer  laughed  and  got  in. 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "when  a  member  of  my  society  is  in  dis- 
tress I  always  like  to  help  him  out." 

He  paused;  I  watched  him  gradually  evolve  his  reply: 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  a  Mason?" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  sure." 

"I  only  joined  last  winter,"  he  said.  "I  Uke  it  first-rate.  When 
you're  a  Mason  you  find  friends  everywhere." 

I  had  some  excellent  remarks  that  I  could  have  made  at  this 


154 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


point,  but  the  distance  was  short  and  bolts  were  irresistibly 
uppermost.  After  helping  him  to  put  in  the  bolt,  I  said: 

"Here's  the  grip  of  fellowship." 

He  returned  it  with  a  will,  but  afterward  he  said  doubtfully: 

"I  didn't  feel  the  grip." 

"Didn't  you?"  I  asked.  "Well,  Brother,  it  was  all  there." 


J% 


"If  ever  I  can  do  anything  for  you,"  he  said,  "just  you  let  mc 
know.  Name's  Forbes,  Spring  Brook." 

And  so  he  drove  away. 

"A  real  Mason,"  I  said  to  myself,  "could  not  have  had  any 
better  advantage  of  his  society  at  this  moment  than  I.  I  walked 
right  into  it  without  a  grip  or  a  pass.  And  benefits  have  also 
been  distributed." 

As  I  drove  onward  I  felt  as  though  anything  might  happen 
to  me  before  I  got  home.  I  know  now  exactly  how  all  old 
knights,  all  voyageurs,  all  crusaders,  all  poets  in  new  places, 
must  have  felt!  I  looked  out  at  every  turn  of  the  road;  and, 
finally,  after  I  had  grown  almost  discouraged  of  encountering 
further  adventure  I  saw  a  man  walking  in  the  road  ahead  of 
me.  He  was  much  bent  over,  and  carried  on  his  back  a  bag. 

When  he  heard  me  coming  he  stepped  out  of  the  road  and 
stood  silent,  saving  every  unnecessary  motion,  as  a  weary  man 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  155 

will.  He  neither  looked  around  nor  spoke,  but  waited  for  me 
to  go  by.  He  was  weary  past  expectation.  I  stopped  the  mare.. 

"Get  in,  Brother,"  I  said;  "I  am  going  your  way." 

He  looked  at  me  doubtfully;  then,  as  I  moved  to  one  side,  he 
let  his  bag  roll  off  his  back  into  his  arms.  I  could  see  the 
swollen  veins  of  his  neck;  his  face  had  the  drawn  look  of  the 
man  who  bears  burdens. 

"Pretty  heavy  for  your  buggy,"  he  remarked. 

"Heavier  for  you,"  I  replied. 

So  he  put  the  bag  in  the  back  of  my  buggy  and  stepped  ia 
beside  me  diffidently. 

"Pull  up  the  lap  robe,"  I  said,  "and  be  comfortable." 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  glad  of  a  lift,"  he  remarked.  "A  bag  of  seed 
wheat  is  about  all  a  man  wants  to  carry  for  four  miles." 

"Aren't  you  the  man  who  has  taken  the  old  Rucker  farm?"  I 
asked. 

"I'm  that  man." 

"I've  been  intending  to  drop  in  and  see  you,"  I  said. 

"Have  you?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  live  just  across  the  hills  from  you,  and  I  had 
a  notion  that  we  ought  to  be  neighbourly — seeing  that  we  be- 
long to  the  same  society." 

His  face,  which  had  worn  a  look  of  set  discouragement  (he 
didn't  know  beforehand  what  the  Rucker  place  was  like!), 
had  brightened  up,  but  when  I  spoke  of  the  society  it  clouded 
again. 

"You  must  be  mistaken,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  a  Mason." 

"No  more  am  I,"  I  said. 

"Nor  an  Oddfellow." 

"Nor  I." 

As  I  looked  at  the  man  I  seemed  to  know  all  about  him.  Some 
people  come  to  us  like  that,  all  at  once,  opening  out  to  some 
unsuspected  key.  His  face  bore  not  a  few  marks  of  refinement, 
though  work  and  discouragement  had  done  their  best  to  obHt- 
erate  them;  his  nose  was  thin  and  high,  his  eye  was  blue,  too 
biue^  and  his  chin  somehow  did  not  go  with  the  Rucker  farm. 
1  knew!  A  man  who  in  his  time  had  seen  many  an  open  door,, 


156  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

but  who  had  found  them  all  closed  when  he  attempted  to  enter! 
If  any  one  ever  needed  the  benefits  of  my  fraternity,  he  was 
that  man. 

"What  Society  did  you  think  I  belonged  to?"  he  asked. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "when  I  was  in  town  a  man  who  wanted  to 
sell  me  a  corn-planter  asked  me  if  I  was  a  Mason " 

"Did  he  ask  you  that,  too?"  interrupted  my  companion. 

"He  did,"  I  said.  "He  did "  and  I  reflected  not  without 

enthusiasm  that  I  had  come  away  without  a  corn-planter.  "And 
when  I  drove  out  of  town  I  was  feeling  rather  depressed  because 
I  wasn't  a  member  of  the  lodge." 

"Were  you?"  exclaimed  my  companion.  "So  was  1. 1  just  felt 
as  though  I  had  about  reached  the  last  ditch.  I  haven't  any 
money  to  pay  into  lodges  and  it  don't  seem's  if  a  man  could  get 
acquainted  and  friendly  without." 

"Farming  is  rather  lonely  work  sometimes,  isn't  it?"  I  ob' 
served. 

"You  bet  it  is,"  he  responded.  "You've  been  there  yourself, 
liaven't  you?" 

There  may  be  such  a  thing  as  the  friendship  of  prosperity; 
but  surely  it  cannot  be  compared  with  the  friendship  of  adver- 
sity. Men,  stooping,  come  close  together. 

"But  when  I  got  to  thinking  it  over,"  I  said,  "it  suddenly 
-occurred  to  me  that  I  belonged  to  the  greatest  of  all  fraternities. 
And  I  recognized  you  instantly  as  a  charter  member." 

He  looked  around  at  me  expectantly,  half  laughing.  I  don't 
suppose  he  had  so  far  forgotten  his  miseries  for  many  a  day. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"The  Universal  Brotherhood  of  Men." 

Well,  we  both  laughed— and  understood. 

After  that,  what  a  story  he  told  me! — the  story  of  a  misplaced 
man  on  an  unproductive  farm.  Is  it  not  marvellous  how  full 
people  are — all  people — of  humour,  tragedy,  passionate  human 
longings,  hopes,  fears — if  only  you  can  unloosen  the  floodgates! 
As  to  my  companion,  he  had  been  growing  bitter  and  sickly 
with  the  pent-up  humours  of  discouragement;  all  he  needed  was 
a  listener. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  157 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  talk  that  he  did  not  at  first  reaUze 
that  we  had  turned  into  his  own  long  lane.  When  he  discovered 
it  he  exclaimed : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  bring  you  out  of  your  way.  I  can  manage 
the  bag  all  right  now." 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  "I  want  to  get  you  home,  to  say  nothing 
of  hearing  how  you  came  out  with  your  pigs." 

As  we  approached  the  house,  a  mournful-looking  woman 
came  to  the  door.  My  companion  sprang  out  of  the  buggy  as 
much  elated  now  as  he  had  previously  been  depressed  (for  that 
was  the  coinage  of  his  temperament),  rushed  up  to  his  wife  and 
led  her  down  to  the  gate.  She  was  evidently  astonished  at  his 
enthusiasm.  I  suppose  she  thought  he  had  at  length  discovered 
his  gold  mine! 

When  I  finally  turned  the  mare  around,  he  stopped  me,  laid 
his  hand  on  my  arm  and  said  in  a  confidential  voice: 

"Fm  glad  we  discovered  that  we  belong  to  the  same  society." 

As  I  drove  away  I  could  not  help  chuckling  when  I  heard  his 
wife  ask  suspiciously: 

"What  society  is  that?" 

I  heard  no  word  of  his  answer:  only  the  note  in  his  voice  of 
eager  explanation. 

And  so  I  drove  homeward  in  the  late  twilight,  and  as  I  came 
up  the  lane,  the  door  of  my  home  opened,  the  light  within 
gleamed  kindly  and  warmly  across  the  darkened  yard :  and  Har- 
riet was  there  on  the  step,  waiting. 


II 


A  DAY  OF  PLEASANT  BREAD 


Xhey  have  all  gone  now,  and  the  house  is  very  still.  For  the 
first  time  this  evening  I  can  hear  the  familiar  sound  o£  the 
December  w^ind  blustering  about  the  house,  complaining  at 
closed  doorways,  asking  questions  at  the  shutters;  but  here  in 
my  room,  under  the  green  reading  lamp,  it  is  warm  and  still. 
Although  Harriet  has  closed  the  doors,  covered  the  coals  in  the 
fireplace,  and  said  good-night,  the  atmosphere  still  seems  to 
tingle  with  the  electricity  of  genial  humanity. 

The  parting  voice  of  the  Scotch  Preacher  still  booms  in  my 
ears: 

"This,"  said  he,  as  he  was  going  out  of  our  door,  wrapped 
like  an  Arctic  highlander  in  cloaks  and  tippets,  "has  been  a  day 
of  pleasant  bread." 

One  of  the  very  pleasantest  I  can  remember! 

I  sometimes  think  we  expect  too  much  of  Christmas  Day.  We 
try  to  crowd  into  it  the  long  arrears  of  kindliness  and  humanity 

158 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  159 

of  the  whole  year.  As  for  me,  I  Hke  to  take  my  Christmas  a  little 
at  a  time,  all  through  the  year.  And  thus  I  drift  along  into  the 
holidays — let  them  overtake  me  unexpectedly — waking  up  some 
fine  morning  and  suddenly  saying  to  myself: 

"Why,  this  is  Christmas  Day!" 

How  the  discovery  makes  one  bound  out  of  his  bed!  What  a 
new  sense  of  life  and  adventure  it  imparts!  Almost  anything 
may  happen  on  a  day  like  this — one  thinks.  I  may  meet  friends 
I  have  not  seen  before  in  years.  Who  knows?  I  may  discover 
that  this  is  a  far  better  and  kindUer  world  than  I  had  ever 
dreamed  it  could  be. 

So  I  sing  out  to  Harriet  as  I  go  down: 

"Merry  Christmas,  Harriet" — and  not  waiting  for  her  sleepy 
reply  I  go  down  and  build  the  biggest,  warmest,  friendUest  fire 
of  the  year.  Then  I  get  into  my  thick  coat  and  mittens  and  open 
the  back  door.  All  around  the  sill,  deep  on  the  step,  and  all 
about  the  yard  lies  the  drifted  snow:  it  has  transformed  my 
wood  pile  into  a  grotesque  Indian  mound,  and  it  frosts  the  roof 
of  my  barn  like  a  wedding  cake.  I  go  at  it  lustily  with  my 
wooden  shovel,  clearing  out  a  pathway  to  the  gate. 

Cold,  too;  one  of  the  coldest  mornings  we've  had — ^but  clear 
and  very  still.  The  sun  is  just  coming  up  over  the  hill  near 
Horace's  farm.  From  Horace's  chimney  the  white  wood-smoke 
of  an  early  fire  rises  straight  upward,  all  golden  with  sunshine, 
into  the  measureless  blue  of  the  sky — on  its  way  to  heaven,  for 
aught  I  know.  When  I  reach  the  gate  my  blood  is  racing  warmly 
in  my  veins.  I  straighten  my  back,  thrust  my  shovel  into  the 
snow  pile,  and  shout  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  for  I  can  no  longer 
contain  myself: 

"Merry  Christmas,  Harriet." 

Harriet  opens  the  door — ^just  a  crack. 

"Merry  Christmas  yourself,  you  Arctic  explorer!  Oo— but  it's 
cold!" 

And  she  closes  the  door. 

Upon  hearing  these  riotous  sounds  the  barnyard  suddenly 
awakens.  I  hear  my  horse  whinnying  from  the  barn,  the  chickens 
begin  to  crow  and  cackle,  and  such  a  grunting  and  squealing 


160 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


as  the  pigs  set  up  from  behind  the  straw  stack,  it  would  do  a 

man's  heart  good  to  hear! 
"It's  a  friendly  world,"  I  say  to  myself,  "and  full  of  business." 
I  plow  through  the  snow  to  the  stable  door.  I  scuff  and  stamp 

the  snow  away  and  pull  it  open  with  difficulty.  A  cloud  of 

steam  arises  out  of  the  warmth  within.  I  step  inside.  My  horse 


Merry  Christmas,  Harriet' 


raises  his  head  above  the  stanchion,  looks  around  at  me,  and 
strikes  his  forefoot  on  the  stable  floor — the  best  greeting  he  has 
at  his  command  for  a  fine  Christmas  morning.  My  cow,  until 
now  silent,  begins  to  bawl. 

I  lay  my  hand  on  the  horse's  flank  and  he  steps  over  in  his 
stall  to  let  me  go  by.  I  slap  his  neck  and  he  lays  back  his  ears 
playfully.  Thus  I  go  out  into  the  passageway  and  give  my  horse 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  161 

his  oats,  throw  corn  and  stalks  to  the  pigs  and  a  handful  of 
grain  to  Harriet's  chickens  (it's  the  only  way  to  stop  the 
cackling!).  And  thus  presently  the  barnyard  is  quiet  again  ex- 
cept for  the  sound  of  contented  feeding. 

Take  my  word  for  it,  this  is  one  of  the  pleasant  moments  of 
life.  I  stand  and  look  long  at  my  barnyard  family.  I  observe  with 
satisfaction  how  plump  they  are  and  how  well  they  are  bearing 
the  winter.  Then  I  look  up  at  my  mountainous  straw  stack  with 
its  capping  of  snow,  and  my  corn  crib  with  the  yellow  ears 
visible  through  the  slats,  and  my  barn  with  its  mow  full  of  hay 
— all  the  gatherings  of  the  year,  now  being  expended  in  growth. 
I  cannot  at  all  explain  it,  but  at  such  moments  the  circuit  of  that 
dim  spiritual  battery  which  each  of  us  conceals  within  seems 
to  close,  and  the  full  current  of  contentment  flows  through  our 
lives. 

All  the  morning  as  I  went  about  my  chores  I  had  a  peculiar 
sense  of  expected  pleasure.  It  seemed  certain  to  me  that  some- 
thing unusual  and  adventurous  was  about  to  happen — and  if  it 
did  not  happen  ofifhand,  why  I  was  there  to  make  it  happen! 
When  I  went  in  to  breakfast  (do  you  know  the  fragrance  of 
broiling  bacon  when  you  have  worked  for  an  hour  before 
breakfast  on  a  morning  of  zero  weather?  If  you  do  not,  con- 
sider that  heaven  still  has  gifts  in  store  for  you!) — when  I  went 
in  to  breakfast,  I  fancied  that  Harriet  looked  preoccupied,  but 
I  was  too  busy  just  then  (hot  corn  muffins)  to  make  an  inquiry, 
and  I  knew  by  experience  that  the  best  solvent  of  secrecy  is 
patience. 

"David,"  said  Harriet,  presently,  "the  cousins  can't  come!" 

"Can't  come!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Why,  you  act  as  if  you  were  delighted." 

"No — well,  yes,"  I  said,  "I  knew  that  some  extraordinary  ad- 
venture was  about  to  happen!" 

"Adventure!  It's  a  cruel  disappointment — I  was  all  ready  for 
them." 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "adventure  is  just  what  we  make  it.  And 
aren't  we  to  have  the  Scotch  Preacher  and  his  wife.?" 

"But  I've  got  such  a  good  dinner." 


162  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  are  no  two  ways  about  it:  it  must  be. 
eaten!  You  may  depend  upon  me  to  do  my  duty." 

"We'll  have  to  send  out  into  the  highways  and  compel  them 
to  come  in,"  said  Harriet  ruefully. 

I  had  several  choice  observations  I  should  have  liked  to  make 
upon  this  problem,  but  Harriet  was  plainly  not  listening;  she 
sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  reflectively  on  the  cofFee-pot.  1  watched 
her  for  a  moment,  then  I  remarked : 

"There  aren't  any." 

"David,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  did  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking  about?" 

"I  merely  wanted  to  show  you,"  I  said,  "that  my  genius  is  not 
properly  appreciated  in  my  own  household.  You  thought  of 
highways,  didn't  yoii?  Then  you  thought  of  the  poor;  especially 
the  poor  on  Christmas  day;  then  of  Mrs.  Heney,  who  isn't  poor 
any  more,  having  married  John  Daniels;  and  then  I  said,  'There 
aren't  any.' " 

Harriet  laughed. 

"It  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass,"  she  said,  "when  there  are  no 
poor  people  to  invite  to  dinner  on  Christmas  day." 

"It's  a  tragedy,  I'll  admit,"  I  said,  "but  let's  be  logical  abou^ 
it." 

"I  am  willing,"  said  Harriet,  "to  be  as  logical  as  you  like." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "having  no  poor  to  invite  to  dinner,  we  must 
necessarily  try  the  rich.  That's  logical,  isn't  it?" 

"Who?"  asked  Harriet,  which  is  just  like  a  woman.  Whenever 
you  get  a  good  healthy  argument  started  with  her,  she  will 
suddenly  short-circuit  it,  and  want  to  know  if  you  mean  Mr. 
Smith,  or  Joe  Perkins's  boys,  which  I  maintain  is  not  logical. 

"Well,  there  are  the  Starkweathers,"  I  said. 

"David!" 

"They're  rich,  aren't  they?" 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  they  live — what  dinners  they  have— 
and  besides,  they  probably  have  a  houseful  of  company." 

"Weren't  you  telling  me  the  other  day  how  many  people 
who  were  really  suffering  were  too  proud  to  let  anyone  know 
about  it?  Weren't  you  advising  the  necessity  of  getting  ac- 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  163 

quainted  with  people  and  finding  out— tactfully,  of  course— you 
made  a  point  of  tact — what  the  trouble  was?" 

"But  I  was  talking  of  poor  people." 

"Why  shouldn't  a  rule  that  is  good  for  poor  people  be  equally 
as  good  for  rich  people  ?  Aren't  they  proud  ? " 

"Oh,  you  can  argue,"  observed  Harriet. 

"And  I  can  act,  too,"  I  said.  "I  am  now  going  over  to  invite 
the  Starkweathers.  I  heard  a  rumour  that  their  cook  has  left 
them  and  I  expect  to  find  them  starving  in  their  parlour.  Of 
course  they'll  be  very  haughty  and  proud,  but  I'll  be  tactful,  and 
when  I  go  away  I'll  casually  leave  a  diamond  tiara  in  the  front 
hall." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning?" 

"Christmas,"  I  said. 

I  can't  tell  how  pleased  I  was  with  the  enterprise  I  had  in 
mind:  it  suggested  all  sorts  of  amusing  and  surprising  develop- 
ments. Moreover,  I  left  Harriet,  finally,  in  the  breeziest  of  spirits, 
having  quite  forgotten  her  disappointment  over  the  non-arrival 
of  the  cousins. 

"If  you  should  get  the  Starkweathers " 

"  'In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth,' "  I  observed,  "  'there  is  no 
such  word  as  fail.'  " 

So  I  set  off  up  the  town  road.  A  team  or  two  had  already  been 
that  way  and  had  broken  a  track  through  the  snow.  The  sun 
was  now  fully  up,  but  the  air  still  tingled  with  the  electricity  of 
zero  weather.  And  the  fields!  I  have  seen  the  fields  of  June  and 
the  fields  of  October,  but  I  think  I  never  saw  our  countryside, 
hills  and  valleys,  tree  spaces  and  brook  bottoms,  more  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful  than  it  was  this  morning.  Snow  everywhere — the 
fences  half  hidden,  the  bridges  clogged,  the  trees  laden:  where 
the  road  was  hard  it  squeaked  under  my  feet,  and  where  it  was 
soft  I  strode  through  the  drifts.  And  the  air  went  to  one's  head 
like  wine! 

So  I  tramped  past  the  Pattersons'.  The  old  man,  a  grumpy 
old  fellow,  was  going  to  the  barn  with  a  pail  on  his  arm. 

"Merry  Christmas,"  I  shouted. 

He  looked  around  at  me  wonderingly  and  did  not  reply.  At 


164  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

the  corners  I  met  the  Newton  boys  so  wrapped  in  tippets  that 
I  could  see  only  their  eyes  and  the  red  ends  of  their  small  noses. 
I  passed  the  Williams's  house,  where  there  was  a  cheerful  smoke 
in  the  chimney  and  in  the  window  a  green  wreath  with  a  lively 
red  bow.  And  I  thought  how  happy  everyone  must  be  on  a 
Christmas  morning  like  this!  At  the  hill  bridge  who  should  I 
meet  but  the  Scotch  Preacher  himself,  God  bless  him! 

"Well,  well,  David,"  he  exclaimed  heartily,  "Merry  Christ- 
mas." 

I  drew  my  face  down  and  said  solemnly: 

"Dr.  McAlway,  I  am  on  a  most  serious  errand." 

"Why,  now,  what's  the  matter?"  He  was  all  sympathy  at  once. 

"I  am  out  in  the  highways  trying  to  compel  the  poor  of  this 
neighbourhood  to  come  to  our  feast." 

The  Scotch  Preacher  observed  me  v^th  a  tv^nkle  in  his  eye. 

"David,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth  as  if  to  speak 
in  my  ear,  "there  is  a  poor  man  you  will  na'  have  to  compel." 

"Oh,  you  don't  count,"  I  said.  "You're  coming  anyhow." 

Then  I  told  him  of  the  errand  with  our  millionaire  friends, 
into  the  spirit  of  which  he  entered  with  the  greatest  zest.  He 
was  full  of  advice  and  much  excited  lest  I  fail  to  do  a  thor- 
oughly competent  job.  For  a  moment  I  think  he  wanted  to  take 
the  whole  thing  out  of  my  hands. 

"Man,  man,  it's  a  lovely  thing  to  do,"  he  exclaimed,  "but  I  ha* 
me  doots — I  ha'  me  doots." 

At  parting  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  with  a  serious  face 
inquired : 

"Is  it  by  any  chance  a  goose?" 

"It  is,"  I  said,  "a  goose— a  big  one." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  of  complete  satisfaction.  "You  have  com- 
forted my  mind,"  he  said,  "with  the  joys  of  anticipation — a 
goose,  a  big  goose." 

So  I  left  him  and  went  onward  toward  the  Starkweathers'. 
Presently  I  saw  the  great  house  standing  among  its  wintry  trees. 
There  was  smoke  in  the  chimney  but  no  other  evidence  of  life. 
At  the  gate  my  spirits,  which  had  been  of  the  best  all  the  morn- 
ing, began  to  fail  me.  Though  Harriet  and  I  were  well  enough 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  165 

acquainted  with  the  Starkweathers,  yet  at  this  late  moment  on 
Christmas  morning  it  did  seem  rather  a  hare-brained  scheme  to 
think  of  inviting  them  to  dinner. 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  "they'll  not  be  displeased  to  see  me 
anyway." 

I  waited  in  the  reception-room,  which  was  cold  and  felt  damp. 
In  the  parlour  beyond  I  could  see  the  innumerable  things  of 
beauty — furniture,  pictures,  books,  so  very,  very  much  of  every- 
thing— with  which  the  room  was  filled.  I  saw  it  now,  as  I  had 


often  seen  it  before,  with  a  pecuHar  sense  of  weariness.  How  all 
these  things,  though  beautiful  enough  in  themselves,  must  clut- 
ter up  a  man's  life! 

Do  you  know,  the  more  I  look  into  life,  the  more  things  it 
seems  to  me  I  can  successfully  lack — and  continue  to  grow  hap- 
pier. How  many  kinds  of  food  I  do  not  need,  nor  cooks  to  cook 
them,  how  much  curious  clothing  nor  tailors  to  make  it,  how 
many  books  that  I  never  read,  and  pictures  that  are  not  worth 
while!  The  farther  I  run,  the  more  I  feel  like  casting  aside  all 
such  impedimenta — lest  I  fail  to  arrive  at  the  far  goal  of  my 
endeavour. 

I  hke  to  think  of  an  old  Japanese  nobleman  I  once  read  about^ 
who  ornamented  his  house  with  a  single  vase  at  a  time,  living 


166  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

with  it,  absorbing  its  message  of  beauty,  and  when  he  tired  of 
it,  replacing  it  with  another.  I  wonder  if  he  had  the  right  way, 
and  we,  with  so  many  objects  to  hang  on  our  walls,  place  on  our 
shelves,  drape  on  our  chairs,  and  spread  on  our  floors,  have 
mistaken  our  course  and  placed  our  hearts  upon  the  multipHcity 
rather  than  the  quality  of  our  possessions! 

Presently  Mr.  Starkweather  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He 
wore  a  velvet  smoking-jacket  and  sHppers;  and  somehow,  for  a 
bright  morning  like  this,  he  seemed  old,  and  worn,  and  cold. 

"Well,  well,  friend,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

He  said  it  as  though  he  meant  it. 

"Come  into  the  library;  it's  the  only  room  in  the  whole  house 
that  is  comfortably  warm.  You've  no  idea  what  a  task  it  is  to 
heat  a  place  like  this  in  really  cold  weather.  No  sooner  do  I  find 
a  man  who  can  run  my  furnace  than  he  goes  off  and  leaves  me." 

"I  can  sympathize  with  you,"  I  said,  "we  often  have  trouble 
at  our  house  with  the  man  who  builds  the  fires." 

He  looked  around  at  me  quizzically. 

"He  Hes  too  long  in  bed  in  the  morning,"  I  said. 

By  this  time  we  had  arrived  at  the  library,  where  a  bright  fire 
was  burning  in  the  grate.  It  was  a  fine  big  room,  with  dark  oak 
furnishings  and  books  in  cases  along  one  wall,  but  this  morning 
it  had  a  dishevelled  and  untidy  look.  On  a  little  table  at  one  side 
of  the  fireplace  were  the  remains  of  a  breakfast;  at  the  other 
a  number  of  wraps  were  thrown  carelessly  upon  a  chair.  As  I 
came  in  Mrs.  Starkweather  rose  from  her  place,  drawing  a  silk 
scarf  around  her  shoulders.  She  is  a  robust,  rather  handsome 
woman,  with  many  rings  on  her  fingers,  and  a  pair  of  glasses 
hanging  to  a  Httle  gold  hook  on  her  ample  bosom;  but  this 
morning  she,  too,  looked  worried  and  old. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  with  a  rueful  laugh,  "we're  beginning  a 
merry  Christmas,  as  you  see.  Think  of  Christmas  with  no  cook 
in  the  house!" 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  discovered  a  gold  mine.  Poor  starving  mil- 
lionaires! 

But  Mrs.  Starkweather  had  not  told  the  whole  of  her  sorrow- 
ful story. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  167 

**We  had  a  company  of  friends  invited  for  dinner  to-day,"  she 
said,  "and  our  cook  was  ill — or  said  she  was — and  had  to  go. 
One  of  the  maids  went  with  her.  The  man  who  looks  after  the 
furnace  disappeared  on  Friday,  and  the  stableman  has  been 
drinking.  We  can't  very  well  leave  the  place  without  some  one 
who  is  responsible  in  charge  of  it — and  so  here  we  are.  Merry 
Christmas!" 

I  couldn't  help  laughing.  Poor  people! 

"You  might,"  I  said,  "apply  for  Mrs.  Heney's  place." 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Heney?"  asked  Mrs.  Starkweather. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Heney!" 
I  exclaimed.  "Mrs.  Heney,  who  is  now  Mrs.  Tenny'  Daniels? 
You've  missed  one  of  our  greatest  celebrities." 

With  that,  of  course,  I  had  to  tell  them  about  Mrs.  Heney, 
who  has  for  years  performed  a  most  important  function  in  this 
community.  Alone  and  unaided  she  has  been  the  poor  whom 
we  are  supposed  to  have  always  with  us.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  devoted  faithfulness  of  Mrs.  Heney  at  Thanksgiving,  Christ- 
mas and  other  times  of  the  year,  I  suppose  our  Woman's  Aid 
Society  and  the  King's  Daughters  would  have  perished  miser- 
ably of  undisturbed  turkeys  and  tufted  comforters.  For  years 
Mrs.  Heney  filled  the  place  most  acceptably.  Curbing  the 
natural  outpourings  of  a  rather  jovial  soul  she  could  upon  occa- 
sion look  as  deserving  of  charity  as  any  person  that  ever  I  met. 
But  I  pitied  the  little  Heneys:  it  always  comes  hard  on  the 
children.  For  weeks  after  every  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas 
they  always  wore  a  painfully  stuffed  and  suffocated  look.  I  only 
came  to  appreciate  fully  what  a  self-sacrificing  pubHc  servant 
Mrs.  Heney  really  was  when  I  learned  that  she  had  taken  the 
desperate  alternative  of  marrying  "Penny"  Daniels. 

"So  you  think  we  might  possibly  aspire  to  the  position?" 
laughed  Mrs.  Starkweather. 

Upon  this  I  told  them  of  the  trouble  in  our  household  and 
asked  them  to  come  down  and  help  us  enjoy  Dr.  McAlway  and 
the  goose. 

When  I  left,  after  much  more  pleasant  talk,  they  both  came 
with  me  to  the  door  seeming  greatly  improved  in  spirits. 


168  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"You've  given  us  something  to  live  for,  Mr.  Grayson,"  said 
Mrs.  Starkweather. 

So  I  walked  homeward  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  an  hour  or 
more  later  who  should  we  see  in  the  top  of  our  upper  field  but 
Mi.  Starkweather  and  his  wife  floundering  in  the  snow.  They 
reached  the  lane  literally  covered  from  top  to  toe  with  snow  and 
both  of  them  ruddy  with  the  cold. 

"We  walked  over,"  said  Mrs.  Starkweather  breathlessly,  "and 
I  haven't  had  so  much  fun  in  years." 

Mr.  Starkweather  helped  her  over  the  fence.  The  Scotch 
Preacher  stood  on  the  steps  to  receive  them,  and  we  all  went  in 
together. 

I  can't  pretend  to  describe  Harriet's  dinner:  the  gorgeous 
brown  goose,  and  the  apple  sauce,  and  all  the  other  things  that 
best  go  with  it,  and  the  pumpkin  pie  at  the  end — the  finest, 
thickest,  most  delicious  pumpkin  pie  I  ever  ate  in  all  my  life. 
It  melted  in  one's  mouth  and  brought  visions  of  celestial  bliss. 
And  I  wish  I  could  have  a  picture  of  Harriet  presiding.  I  have 
never  seen  her  happier,  or  more  in  her  element.  Every  time  she 
brought  in  a  new  dish  or  took  ofl  a  cover  it  was  a  sort  of  miracle. 
And  her  coffee — but  I  must  not  and  dare  not  elaborate. 

And  what  great  talk  we  had  afterward! 

I've  known  the  Scotch  Preacher  for  a  long  time,  but  I  never 
saw  him  in  quite  such  a  mood  of  hilarity.  He  and  Mr.  Stark- 
weather told  stories  of  their  boyhood — and  we  laughed,  and 
laughed — Mrs.  Starkweather  the  most  of  all.  Seeing  her  so  often 
in  her  carriage,  or  in  the  dignity  of  her  home,  I  didn't  think  she 
had  so  much  jollity  in  her.  Finally  she  discovered  Harriet's 
cabinet  organ,  and  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  sing  for 
us. 

"None  of  the  new-fangled  ones,  Clara,"  cried  her  husband: 
"some  of  the  old  ones  we  used  to  know." 

So  she  sat  herself  down  at  the  organ  and  threw  her  head  back 
and  began  to  sing: 

"Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms. 
Which  I  gaz^  <^n  so  fondly  to-day /' 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  169 

Mr.  Starkweather  jumped  up  and  ran  over  to  the  organ  and 
joined  in  with  his  deep  voice.  Harriet  and  I  followed.  The 
Scotch  Preacher's  wife  nodded  in  time  with  the  music,  and 
presently  I  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  As  for  Dr.  McAlway,  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  his  chair  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  and 
wagged  his  shaggy  head,  and  before  we  got  through  he,  too, 
joined  in  with  his  big  sonorous  voice: 

"Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored  as  this  moment  thou 
art r 

Oh,  I  can't  tell  here — it  grows  late  and  there's  work  to- 
morrow— all  the  things  we  did  and  said.  They  stayed  until  it 
was  dark,  and  when  Mrs.  Starkweather  was  ready  to  go,  she 
took  both  of  Harriet's  hands  in  hers  and  said  with  great  earnest- 
ness: 

"I  haven't  had  such  a  good  time  at  Christmas  since  I  was  a 
little  girl.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

And  the  dear  old  Scotch  Preacher,  when  Harriet  and  I  had 
wrapped  him  up,  went  out,  saying: 

"This  has  been  a  day  of  pleasant  bread." 

It  has;  it  has.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  it.  What  a  lot  of  kindness 
and  common  human  nature — childlike  simplicity,  if  you  will- 
there  is  in  people  once  you  get  them  down  together  and  per- 
suade them  that  the  things  they  think  serious  are  not  serious 
at  all. 


n 

^r  > 

f  ^ 

.  -  a-. 

^"^^sgjs^-^H 

JjT 

X'^-'^^ 

ClJ* 

^" 

./T 

III 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 

"To  ma\e  space  for  wandering  it  is  that  the  world 
was  made  so  wide," 

— GOETHE,  Wilhelm  Meister. 


JL  LOVE  SOMETIMES  to  havc  3  day  alone — a  riotous  day.  Sometimes 
I  do  not  care  to  see  even  my  best  friends:  but  I  give  myself  up 
to  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  w^orld  around  me.  I  go  out  of  my 
door  in  the  morning — preferably  a  sunny  morning,  though  any 
morning  will  do  well  enough — and  walk  straight  out  into  the 
world.  I  take  with  me  the  burden  of  no  duty  or  responsibiUty. 
I  draw  in  the  fresh  air,  odour-laden  from  orchard  and  wood.  I 
look  about  me  as  if  everything  were  new — and  behold  every- 
thing is  new.  My  barn,  my  oaks,  my  fences— I  declare  I  never 
saw  them  before.  I  have  no  preconceived  impressions,  or  beliefs, 
or  opinions.  My  lane  fence  is  the  end  of  the  known  earth.  I  am  a 
discoverer  of  new  fields  among  old  ones.  I  see,  feel,  hear,  smell, 
taste  all  these  wonderful  things  for  the  first  time.  I  have  no  idea 
what  discoveries  I  shall  make! 

170 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  171 

So  I  go  down  the  lane,  looking  up  and  about  me.  I  cross  the 
town  road  and  climb  the  fence  on  the  other  side.  I  brush  one 
shoulder  among  the  bushes  as  I  pass:  I  feel  the  solid  yet  easy 
pressure  of  the  sod.  The  long  blades  of  the  timothy-grass  clasp 
at  my  legs  and  let  go  with  reluctance.  I  break  off  a  twig  here  and 
there  and  taste  the  tart  or  bitter  sap.  I  take  off  my  hat  and  let 
the  warm  sun  shine  on  my  head.  I  am  an  adventurer  upon  a  new 
earth. 

Is  it  not  marvellous  how  far  afield  some  of  us  are  willing  to 
travel  in  pursuit  of  that  beauty  which  we  leave  behind  us  at 
home?  We  mistake  unfamiliarity  for  beauty;  we  darken  our 
perceptions  with  idle  foreignness.  For  want  of  that  ardent  inner 
curiosity  which  is  the  only  true  foundation  for  the  appreciation 
of  beauty — for  beauty  is  inward,  not  outward — we  find  our- 
selves hastening  from  land  to  land,  gathering  mere  curious  re- 
semblances which,  like  unassimilated  property,  possess  no  power 
of  fecundation.  With  what  pathetic  diligence  we  collect  peaks 
and  passes  in  Switzerland;  how  we  come  laden  from  England 
with  vain  cathedrals! 

Beauty?  What  is  it  but  a  new  way  of  approach?  For  wdlder- 
ness,  for  foreignness,  I  have  no  need  to  go  a  mile:  I  have  only  to 
come  up  through  my  thicket  or  cross  my  field  from  my  own 
roadside — and  behold,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth! 

Things  grow  old  and  stale,  not  because  they  are  old,  but  be- 
cause we  cease  to  see  them.  Whole  vibrant  significant  worlds 
around  us  disappear  within  the  sombre  mists  of  familiarity. 
Whichever  way  we  look  the  roads  are  dull  and  barren.  There 
is  a  tree  at  our  gate  we  have  not  seen  in  years :  a  flower  blooms 
in  our  door-yard  more  wonderful  than  the  shining  heights  of 
the  Alps! 

It  has  seemed  to  me  sometimes  as  though  I  could  see  men 
hardening  before  my  eyes,  drawing  in  a  feeler  here,  walling  up 
an  opening  there.  Naming  things!  Objects  fall  into  categories 
for  them  and  wear  little  sure  channels  in  the  brain.  A  mountain 
is  a  mountain,  a  tree  a  tree  to  them,  a  field  forever  a  field.  Life 
solidifies  itself  in  words.  And  finally  how  everything  wearies 
them  and  that  is  old  age! 


172 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


Is  it  not  the  prime  struggle  of  life  to  keep  the  mind  plastic? 
To  see  and  feel  and  hear  things  newly?  To  accept  nothing  as 
settled;  to  defend  the  eternal  right  of  the  questioner?  To  reject 
every  conclusion  of  yesterday  before  the  surer  observations  of 
to-day? — is  not  that  the  best  life  we  know? 

And  so  to  the  Open  Road!  Not  many  miles  from  my  farm 
there  is  a  tamarack  swamp.  The  soft  dark  green  of  it  fills  the 
round  bowl  of  a  valley.  Around  it  spread  rising  forests  and 
fields;  fences  divide  it  from  the  known  land.  Coming  across  my 
fields  one  day,  I  saw  it  there.  I  felt  the  habit  of  avoidance.  It  is 


a  custom,  well  enough  in  a  practical  land,  to  shun  such  a  spot  of 
perplexity;  but  on  that  day  I  was  following  the  Open  Road,  and 
it  led  me  straight  to  the  moist  dark  stillness  of  the  tamaracks. 
I  cannot  here  tell  all  the  marvels  I  found  in  that  place.  I  trod 
where  human  foot  had  never  trod  before.  Cobwebs  barred  my 
passage  (the  bars  to  most  passages  when  we  came  to  them  are 
only  cobwebs),  the  earth  was  soft  with  the  thick  swamp  mosses, 
and  with  many  an  autumn  of  fallen  dead,  brown  leaves.  I  crossed 
the  track  of  a  muskrat,  I  saw  the  nest  of  a  hawk — and  how,  how 
many  other  things  of  the  wilderness  I  must  not  here  relate.  And 
I  came  out  of  it  renewed  and  refreshed;  I  know  now  the  feeling 
of  the  pioneer  and  the  discoverer.  Peary  has  no  more  than  I; 
Stanley  tells  me  nothing  I  have  not  experienced! 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  173 

What  more  than  that  is  the  accompHshment  of  the  great  in- 
ventor, poet,  painter?  Such  cannot  abide  habit-hedged  wilder- 
nesses. They  follow  the  Open  Road,  they  see  for  themselves, 
and  will  not  accept  the  paths  or  the  names  of  the  world.  And 
Sight,  kept  clear,  becomes,  curiously.  Insight.  A  thousand  had 
seen  apples  fall  before  Newton.  But  Newton  was  dowered  with 
the  spirit  of  the  Open  Road! 

Sometimes  as  I  walk,  seeking  to  see,  hear,  feel,  everything 
newly,  I  devise  secret  words  for  the  things  I  see:  words  that 
convey  to  me  alone  the  thought,  or  impression,  or  emotion  of  a 
peculiar  spot.  All  this,  I  know,  to  some  will  seem  the  acme  of 
fooHsh  illusion.  Indeed,  I  am  not  telling  of  it  because  it  is  practi- 
cal; there  is  no  cash  at  the  end  of  it.  I  am  reporting  it  as  an  ex- 
perience in  Hfe;  those  who  understand  will  understand.  And 
thus  out  of  my  journeys  I  have  words  which  bring  back  to  me 
with  indescribable  poignancy  the  particular  impression  of  a  time 
or  a  place.  I  prize  them  more  highly  than  almost  any  other  of 
my  possessions,  for  they  come  to  me  seemingly  out  of  the  air, 
and  the  remembrance  of  them  enables  me  to  recall  or  live  over 
a  past  experience  with  scarcely  diminished  emotion. 

And  one  of  these  words — how  it  brings  to  me  the  very  mood 
of  a  gray  October  day!  A  sleepy  west  wind  blowing.  The  fields 
are  bare,  the  corn  shocks  brown,  and  the  long  road  looks  flat 
and  dull.  Away  in  the  marsh  I  hear  a  single  melancholy  crow. 
A  heavy  day,  namelessly  sad!  Old  sorrows  flock  to  one's 
memory  and  old  regrets.  The  creeper  is  red  in  the  swamp  and 
the  grass  is  brown  on  the  hill.  It  comes  to  me  that  I  was  a  boy 
once 

So  to  the  flat  road  and  away!  And  turn  at  the  turning  and  rise 
with  the  hill.  Will  the  mood  change:  will  the  day?  I  see  a  lone 
man  in  the  top  of  a  pasture  crying  "Coo-ee,  coo-ee."  I  do  not  see 
at  first  why  he  cries  and  then  over  the  hill  comes  the  ewes,  a 
dense  gray  flock  of  them,  huddling  toward  me.  The  yokel  behind 
has  a  stick  in  each  hand.  "Coo-ee,  coo-ee,"  he  also  cries.  And  the 
two  men,  gathering  in,  threatening,  sidling,  advancing  slowly, 
the  sheep  turning  uncertainly  this  way  and  that,  come  at  last  to 
the  boarded  pen. 


174  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"That's  the  idee,"  says  the  helper. 

"A  poor  lot,"  remarks  the  leader:  "such  is  the  farmer's  life." 

From  the  roadway  they  back  their  frame-decked  wagon  to 
the  fence  and  unhook  their  team.  The  leader  throws  off  his  coat 
and  stands  thick  and  muscular  in  his  blue  jeans — a  roistering 
fellow  with  a  red  face,  thick  neck  and  chapped  hands. 

"I'll  pass  'em  up,"  he  says;  "that's  a  man's  work.  You  stand  in 
the  wagon  and  put  'em  in." 


So  he  springs  into  the  yard  and  the  sheep  huddle  close  into 
the  corner,  here  and  there  raising  a  timid  head,  here  and  there 
darting  aside  in  a  panic. 

"Hi  there,  it's  for  you,"  shouts  the  leader,  and  thrusts  his 
hands  deep  in  the  wool  of  one  of  the  ewes. 

"Come  up  here,  you  Southdown  with  the  bare  belly,"  says  the 
man  in  the  wagon. 

"That's  my  old  game — wrastling,"  the  leader  remarks,  strug- 
gling with  the  next  ewe.  "Stiddy,  stiddy,  now  I  got  you,  up  with 
you,  dang  you!" 

"That's  the  idee,"  says  the  man  in  the  wagon. 

So  I  watch  and  they  pass  up  the  sheep  one  by  one  and  as  I  go 
down  the  road  I  hear  the  leader's  thick  voice,  "Stiddy,  stiddy," 
and  the  response  of  the  other,  "That's  the  idee."  And  so  on  into 
the  gray  day! 

My  Open  Road  leads  not  only  to  beauty,  not  only  to  fresh 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  175 

adventures  in  outer  observation.  I  believe  in  the  Open  Road  in 
religion,  in  education,  in  politics :  there  is  nothing  really  settled, 
fenced  in,  nor  finally  decided  upon  this  earth.  Nothing  that  is 
not  questionable.  I  do  not  mean  that  I  would  immediately  tear 
down  well-built  fences  or  do  away  with  established  and  beaten 
roads.  By  no  means.  The  wisdom  of  past  ages  is  likely  to  be 
wiser  than  any  hasty  conclusions  of  mine.  I  would  not  invite  any 
other  person  to  follow  my  road  until  I  had  well  proven  it  a  bet- 
ter way  toward  truth  than  that  which  time  had  established.  And 
yet  I  would  have  every  man  tread  the  Open  Road;  I  would  have 
him  upon  occasion  question  the  smuggest  institution  and  look 
askance  upon  the  most  ancient  habit.  I  would  have  him  throw  a 
doubt  upon  Newton  and  defy  Darwin!  I  would  have  him  look 
straight  at  men  and  nature  with  his  own  eyes.  He  should  ac- 
knowledge no  common  gods  unless  he  proved  them  gods  for 
himself.  The  "equality  of  men"  which  we  worship :  is  there  not 
a  higher  inequality  ?  The  material  progress  which  we  deify :  is  it 
real  progress?  Democracy — is  it  after  all  better  than  monarchy.? 
I  would  have  him  question  the  canons  of  art,  literature,  music, 
morals:  so  will  he  continue  young  and  useful! 

And  yet  sometimes  I  ask  myself.  What  do  I  travel  for?  Why 
all  this  excitement  and  eagerness  of  inquiry?  What  is  it  that  I 
go  forth  to  find?  Am  I  better  for  keeping  my  roads  open  than 
my  neighbour  is  who  travels  with  contentment  the  paths  of 
ancient  habit?  I  am  gnawed  by  the  tooth  of  unrest — to  what 
end?  Often  as  I  travel  I  ask  myself  that  question  and  I  have 
never  had  a  convincing  answer.  I  am  looking  for  something  I 
cannot  find.  My  Open  Road  is  open,  too,  at  the  end!  What  is  it 
that  drives  a  man  onward,  that  scourges  him  with  unanswered 
questions!  We  only  know  that  we  are  driven;  we  do  not  know 
who  drives.  We  travel,  we  inquire,  we  look,  we  work — only 
knowing  that  these  activities  satisfy  a  certain  deep  and  secret 
demand  within  us.  We  have  Faith  that  there  is  a  Reason:  and 
is  there  not  a  present  Joy  in  following  the  Open  Road  ? 

**And  0  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 
But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun" 


176  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

And  at  the  end  of  the  day  the  Open  Road,  if  we  follow  it  with 
wisdom  as  well  as  fervour,  will  bring  us  safely  home  again.  For 
after  all  the  Open  Road  must  return  to  the  Beaten  Path.  The 
Open  Road  is  for  adventure;  and  adventure  is  not  the  food  of 
life,  but  the  spice. 

Thus  I  came  back  this  evening  from  rioting  in  my  fields.  As  I 
walked  down  the  lane  I  heard  the  soft  tinkle  of  a  cowbell,  a 
certain  earthy  exhalation,  as  of  work,  came  out  of  the  bare  fields, 
the  duties  of  my  daily  life  crowded  upon  me  bringing  a  pleasant 
calmness  of  spirit,  and  I  said  to  myself: 

"Lord  be  praised  for  that  which  is  common." 

And  after  I  had  done  my  chores  I  came  in,  hungry,  to  my 
supper. 


o, 


IV 

ON  BEING  WHERE  YOU  BELONG 

Sunday  Morning,  May  20th, 


'n  FRIDAY  I  began  planting  my  corn.  For  many  days  previ- 
ously I  went  out  every  morning  at  sun-up,  in  the  clear,  sharp  air, 
and  thrust  my  hand  deep  down  in  the  soil  of  the  field.  I  do  not 
know  that  I  followed  any  learned  agricultural  rule,  but  some- 
how I  liked  to  do  it.  It  has  seemed  reasonable  to  me,  instead  of 
watching  for  a  phase  of  the  moon  (for  I  do  not  cultivate  the 
moon),  to  inquire  of  the  earth  itself.  For  many  days  I  had  no 
response;  the  soil  was  of  an  icy,  moist  coldness,  as  of  death.  "I 
am  not  ready  yet,"  it  said;  "I  have  not  rested  my  time." 

Early  in  the  week  we  had  a  day  or  two  of  soft  sunshine,  of 
fecund  warmth,  to  which  the  earth  lay  open,  willing,  passive. 
On  Thursday  morning,  though  a  white  frost  silvered  the  harrow 
ridges,  when  I  thrust  my  hand  into  the  soil  I  felt,  or  seemed  to 
feel,  a  curious  response :  a  strange  answering  of  Ufe  to  life.  The 
stone  had  been  rolled  from  the  sepulchre! 

And  I  knew  then  that  the  destined  time  had  arrived  for  my 
planting.  That  afternoon  I  marked  out  my  corn-field,  driving 

177 


178  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

the  mare  to  my  home-made  wooden  marker,  carefully  observant 
of  the  straightness  of  the  rows;  for  a  crooked  corn-row  is  a  sort 
of  immorality.  I  brought  down  my  seed  corn  from  the  attic, 
where  it  had  hung  waiting  all  winter,  each  ear  suspended  sepa- 
rately by  the  white,  up-turned  husks.  They  were  the  selected 
ears  of  last  year's  crop,  even  of  size  throughout,  smooth  of 
kernel,  with  tips  well-covered — the  perfect  ones  chosen  among 
many  to  perpetuate  the  highest  excellencies  of  the  crop.  I  car- 
ried them  to  the  shed  next  my  barn,  and  shelled  them  out  in 
my  hand  machine :  as  fine  a  basket  of  yellow  dent  seed  as  a  man 
ever  saw.  I  have  listened  to  endless  discussions  as  to  the  relative 
merits  of  flint  and  dent  corn.  I  here  cast  my  vote  emphatically 
for  yellow  dent:  it  is  the  best  Nature  can  do! 

I  found  my  seed-bag  hanging,  dusty,  over  a  rafter  in  the  shed, 
and  Harriet  sewed  a  buckle  on  the  strip  that  goes  around  the 
waist.  I  cleaned  and  sharpened  my  hoe. 

"Now,"  I  said  to  myself,  "give  me  a  good  day  and  I  am  ready 
to  plant." 

The  sun  was  just  coming  up  on  Friday,  looking  over  the 
trees  into  a  world  of  misty  and  odorous  freshness.  When  I 
climbed  the  fence  I  dropped  down  in  the  grass  at  the  far  corner 
of  the  field.  I  had  looked  forward  this  year  with  pleasure  to  the 
planting  of  a  small  field  by  hand — the  adventure  of  it — after  a 
number  of  years  of  horse  planting  (with  Horace's  machine)  of 
far  larger  fields.  There  is  an  indescribable  satisfaction  in  answer- 
ing, "Present!"  to  the  roll-call  of  Nature:  to  plant  when  the 
earth  is  ready,  to  cultivate  when  the  soil  begins  to  bake  and 
harden,  to  harvest  when  the  grain  is  fully  ripe.  It  is  the  chief 
joy  of  him  who  lives  close  to  the  soil  that  he  comes,  in  time,  to 
beat  in  consonance  with  the  pulse  of  the  earth;  its  seasons  be- 
come his  seasons;  its  life  his  life. 

Behold  me,  then,  with  a  full  seed-bag  suspended  before  me, 
buckled  both  over  the  shoulders  and  around  the  waist,  a  shiny 
hoe  in  my  hand  (the  scepter  of  my  dominion),  a  comfortable, 
rested  feehng  in  every  muscle  of  my  body,  standing  at  the  end 
of  the  first  long  furrow  there  in  my  field  on  Friday  morning— 
a  whole  spring  day  open  before  me!  At  that  moment  I  would 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


179 


not  have  changed  my  place  for  the  place  of  any  king,  prince,  or 
president. 

At  first  I  was  awkward  enough,  for  it  has  been  a  long  time 
since  I  have  done  much  hand  planting;  but  I  soon  fell  into  the 
rhythmic  swing  of  the  sower,  the  sure,  even,  accurate  step;  the 
turn  of  the  body  and  the  flexing  of  the  wrists  as  the  hoe  strikes 
downward;  the  deftly  hollowed  hole;  the  swing  of  the  hand  to 
the  seed-bag;  the  sure  fall  of  the  kernels;  the  return  of  the  hoe; 


the  final  determining  pressure  of  the  soil  upon  the  seed.  One 
falls  into  it  and  follows  it  as  he  would  follow  the  rhythm  of  a 
march. 

Even  the  choice  of  seed  becomes  automatic,  instinctive.  At 
first  there  is  a  conscious  counting  by  the  fingers — ^five  seeds: 

One  for  the  blac\bird. 

One  for  the  crow, 
One  for  the  cutworm. 

Two  to  grow. 

But  after  a  time  one  ceases  to  count  five,  and  feels  five,  in- 
stinctively rejecting  a  monstrous  six,  or  returning  to  complete 
an  inferior  four. 

I  wonder  if  you  know  the  feel  of  the  fresh,  soft  soil,  as  it 


180  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

answers  to  your  steps,  giving  a  little,  responding  a  little  (as  life 
always  does) — and  is  there  not  something  endlessly  good  and 
pleasant  about  it?  And  the  movement  of  the  arms  and  shoulders, 
falling  easily  into  that  action  and  reaction  which  yields  the 
most  service  to  the  least  energy!  Scientists  tell  us  that  the  awk- 
ward young  eagle  has  a  wider  wing-stretch  than  the  old,  skilled 
eagle.  So  the  corn  planter,  at  noon,  will  do  his  work  with  half 
the  expended  energy  of  the  early  morning:  he  attains  the  artistry 
of  motion.  And  quite  beyond  and  above  this  physical  accom- 
plishment is  the  ever-present,  scarcely  conscious  sense  of  re- 
ward, repayment,  which  one  experiences  as  he  covers  each 
planting  of  seeds. 

As  the  sun  rose  higher  the  mists  stole  secretly  away,  first 
toward  the  lower  brook-hollows,  finally  disappearing  entirely; 
the  morning  coolness  passed,  the  tops  of  the  furrows  dried  out 
to  a  lighter  brown,  and  still  I  followed  the  long  planting.  At 
each  return  I  refilled  my  seed-bag,  and  sometimes  I  drank  from 
the  jug  of  water  which  I  had  hidden  in  the  grass.  Often  I  stood 
a  moment  by  the  fence  to  look  up  and  around  me.  Through  the 
clear  morning  air  I  could  hear  the  roosters  crowing  vainglori- 
ously  from  the  barnyard,  and  the  robins  were  singing,  and  occa- 
sionally  from  the  distant  road  I  heard  the  rumble  of  a  wagon.  I 
noted  the  slow  kitchen,  smoke  from  Horace's  chimney,  the  tip 
of  which  I  could  just  see  over  the  hill  from  the  margin  of  my 
field — and  my  own  pleasant  home  among  its  trees — and  my 
barn — all  most  satisfying  to  look  upon.  Then  I  returned  to  the 
sweat  and  heat  of  the  open  field,  and  to  the  steady  swing  of  the 
sowing. 

Joy  of  life  seems  to  me  to  arise  from  a  sense  of  being  where 
one  belongs,  as  I  feel  right  here;  of  being  foursquare  with  the 
life  we  have  chosen.  All  the  discontented  people  I  know  are  try- 
ing sedulously  to  be  something  they  are  not,  to  do  something 
they  cannot  do.  In  the  advertisements  of  the  country  paper  I 
find  men  angUng  for  money  by  promising  to  make  women  beau- 
tiful and  men  learned  or  rich — overnight — by  inspiring  good 
farmers  and  carpenters  to  be  poor  doctors  and  lawyers.  It  is 
curious,  is  it  not,  with  what  skill  we  will  adapt  our  sandy  land 


181 


182  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

to  potatoes  and  grow  our  beans  in  clay,  and  with  how  littk 
wisdom  we  farm  the  soils  of  our  own  natures.  We  try  to  grow 
poetry  where  plumbing  would  thrive  grandly! — not  knowing 
that  plumbing  is  as  important  and  honourable  and  necessary  to 
this  earth  as  poetry. 

I  understand  it  perfectly;  I  too,  followed  long  after  false  gods. 
I  thought  I  must  rush  forth  to  see  the  world,  I  must  forthwith 
become  great,  rich,  famous;  and  I  hurried  hither  and  thither, 
seeking  I  knew  not  what.  Consuming  my  days  with  the  infinite 
distractions  of  travel,  I  missed,  as  one  who  attempts  two  occu- 
pations at  once,  the  sure  satisfaction  of  either.  Beholding  the 
exteriors  of  cities  and  of  men,  I  was  deceived  with  shadows; 
my  hfe  took  no  hold  upon  that  which  is  deep  and  true.  Colour 
I  got,  and  form,  and  a  superficial  aptitude  in  judging  by  sym- 
bols. It  was  like  the  study  of  a  science:  a  hasty  review  gives  one 
the  general  rules,  but  it  requires  a  far  profounder  insight  to 
know  the  fertile  exceptions. 

But  as  I  grow  older  I  remain  here  on  my  farm,  and  wait 
quietly  for  the  world  to  pass  this  way.  My  oak  and  I,  we  wait^ 
and  we  are  satisfied.  Here  we  stand  among  our  clods;  our  feet 
are  rooted  deep  within  the  soil.  The  wind  blows  upon  us  and 
delights  us,  the  rain  falls  and  refreshes  us,  the  sun  dries  and 
sweetens  us.  We  are  become  calm,  slow,  strong;  so  we  measure 
rectitudes  and  regard  essentials,  my  oak  and  I. 

I  would  be  a  hard  person  to  dislodge  or  uproot  from  this  spot 
of  earth.  I  belong  here;  I  grow  here.  I  like  to  think  of  the  old 
fable  of  the  wrestler  of  Irassa.  For  I  am  veritably  that  Anteus 
who  was  the  wrestler  of  Irassa  and  drew  his  strength  from  the 
ground.  So  long  as  I  tread  the  long  furrows  of  my  planting,  with 
my  feet  upon  the  earth,  I  am  invincible  and  unconquerable. 
Hercules  himself,  though  he  comes  upon  me  in  the  guise  of 
Riches,  or  Fame,  or  Power,  cannot  overthrow  me — save  as  he 
takes  me  away  from  this  soil.  For  at  each  step  my  strength  is 
renewed.  I  forget  weariness,  old  age  has  no  dread  for  me. 

Some  there  may  be  who  think  I  talk  dreams;  they  do  not 
know  reality.  My  friend,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  are 
unhappy  because  you  have  lost  connection  with  life?  Because, 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  183 

your  feet  are  not  somewhere  firm  planted  upon  the  soil  of 
reality?  Contentment,  and  indeed  usefulness,  comes  as  the  in- 
fallible result  of  great  acceptances,  great  humilities — of  not  try- 
ing to  make  ourselves  this  or  that  (to  conform  to  some  drama- 
tized version  of  ourselves),  but  of  surrendering  ourselves  to  the 
fullness  of  Hfe — of  letting  life  flow^  through  us.  To  be  used! — 
that  is  the  sublimest  thing  we  know. 


It  is  a  distinguishing  mark  of  greatness  that  it  has  a  tremen- 
dous hold  upon  real  things.  I  have  seen  men  who  seemed  to 
have  behind  them,  or  rather  within  them,  whole  societies,  states, 
institutions:  how  they  come  at  us,  like  Atlas  bearing  the 
world!  For  they  act  not  with  their  own  feebleness,  but  with  a 
strength  as  of  the  Whole  of  Life.  They  speak,  and  the  words 
are  theirs,  but  the  voice  is  the  Voice  of  Mankind. 

I  don't  know  what  to  call  it:  being  right  with  God  or  right 
with  life.  It  is  strangely  the  same  thing;  and  God  is  not  particu- 
lar as  to  the  name  we  know  him  by,  so  long  as  we  know  Him. 
Musing  upon  these  secret  things,  I  seem  to  understand  what  the 
theologians  in  their  darkness  have  made  so  obscure.  Is  it  not 
just  this  at-one-ment  with  life  which  sweetens  and  saves  us  all? 

In  all  these  writings  I  have  glorified  the  life  of  the  soil  until 
I  am  ashamed.  I  have  loved  it  because  it  saved  me.  The  farm  for 
me,  I  decided  long  ago,  is  the  only  place  where  I  can  flow 
strongly  and  surely.  But  to  you,  my  friend,  life  may  present  a 
wholly  different  aspect,  variant  necessities.  Knowing  what  I 
have  experienced  in  the  city,  I  have  sometimes  wondered  at  the 
happy  (even  serene)  faces  I  have  seen  in  crowded  streets.  There 


184  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

must  be,  I  admit,  those  who  can  flow  and  be  at  one  with  th^/ 
life,  too.  And  let  them  handle  their  money,  and  make  shoes, 
and  sew  garments,  and  write  in  ledgers — if  that  completes  and 
contents  them.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  any  one  of  them.  It  is, 
after  all,  a  big  and  various  world,  where  men  can  be  happy  in 
many  ways. 

For  every  man  is  a  magnet,  highly  and  singularly  sensitized. 
Some  draw  to  them  fields  and  woods  and  hills,  and  are  drawn 
in  return;  and  some  draw  swift  streets  and  the  riches  which 
are  known  to  cities.  It  is  not  of  importance  what  we  draw,  but 
that  we  really  draw.  And  the  greatest  tragedy  in  life,  as  I  see  it, 
is  that  thousands  of  men  and  women  never  have  the  opportu- 
nity to  draw  with  freedom;  but  they  exist  in  weariness  and 
labour,  and  are  drawn  upon  like  inanimate  objects  by  those  who 
live  in  unhappy  idleness.  They  do  not  farm:  they  are  farmed. 
But  that  is  a  question  foreign  to  present  considerations.  We 
may  be  assured,  if  we  draw  freely,  like  the  magnet  of  steel 
which  gathers  its  iron  filings  about  it  in  beautiful  and  symmetric 
cal  forms,  that  the  things  which  we  attract  will  also  become 
symmetrical  and  harmonious  with  our  lives. 

Thus  flowing  with  Ufe,  self-surrendering  to  life  a  man  be- 
comes indispensable  to  life,  he  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
conduct  of  this  universe.  And  it  is  the  feeling  of  being  neces- 
sary, of  being  desired,  flowing  into  a  man  that  produces  the 
satisfaction  of  contentment.  Often  and  often  I  think  to  myself: 

These  fields  have  need  of  me;  my  horse  whinnies  when  he 
hears  my  step;  my  dog  barks  a  welcome.  These,  my  neighbours, 
are  glad  of  me.  The  corn  comes  up  fresh  and  green  to  my  plant- 
ing; my  buckwheat  bears  richly.  I  am  indispensable  in  this 
place.  What  is  more  satisfactory  to  the  human  heart  than  to  be 
needed  and  to  know  we  are  needed?  One  line  in  the  Book  of 
Chronicles,  when  I  read  it,  flies  up  at  me  out  of  the  printed 
page  as  though  it  were  alive,  conveying  newly  the  age-old 
agony  of  a  misplaced  man.  After  relating  the  short  and  evil 
history  of  Jehoram,  King  of  Judah,  the  account  ends — with  the 
appalling  terseness  which  often  crowns  the  dramatic  cUmaxes 
of  that  matchless  writing: 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  185 

"And  (he)  departed  without  being  desired." 

Without  being  desired!  I  have  wondered  if  any  man  was  ever 
cursed  with  a  more  terrible  epitaph! 

And  so  I  planted  my  corn;  and  in  the  evening  I  felt  the  dumb 
weariness  of  physical  toil.  Many  times  in  older  days  I  have 
known  the  wakeful  nerve-weariness  of  cities.  This  was  not  it.  It 
was  the  weariness  which,  after  supper,  seizes  upon  one's  Umbs 
with  half-aching  numbness.  I  sat  down  on  my  porch  with  a 
nameless  content.  I  looked  off  across  the  countryside.  I  saw  the 
evening  shadows  fall,  and  the  moon  come  up.  And  I  wanted 
nothing  I  had  not.  And  finally  sleep  swept  in  resistless  waves 
upon  me  and  I  stumbled  up  to  bed — and  sank  into  dreamless 
slumber. 


V 

THE  STORY  OF  ANNA 

It  is  the  prime  secret  of  the  Open  Road  (but  I  may  here  tell  it 
aloud)  that  you  are  to  pass  nothing,  reject  nothing,  despise 
nothing  upon  this  earth.  As  you  travel,  many  things  both  great 
and  small  will  come  to  your  attention;  you  are  to  regard  all  with 
open  eyes  and  a  heart  of  simplicity.  BeUeve  that  everything  be- 
longs somewhere;  each  thing  has  its  fitting  and  luminous  place 
within  this  mosaic  of  human  life.  The  True  Road  is  not  open 
to  those  who  withdraw  the  skirts  of  intolerance  or  lift  the  chin 
of  pride.  Rejecting  the  least  of  those  who  are  called  common  or 
unclean,  it  is  (curiously)  you  yourself  that  you  reject.  If  you 
despise  that  which  is  ugly  you  do  not  know  that  which  is  beauti- 
ful. For  what  is  beauty  but  completeness  ?  The  roadside  beggar 
belongs  here,  too;  and  the  idiot  boy  who  wanders  idly  in  the 
open  fields;  and  the  girl  who  withholds  (secretly)  the  name  of 
the  father  of  her  child. 

I  remember  as  distinctly  as  though  it  happened  yesterday  the 
particular  evening  three  years  ago  when  I  saw  the  Scotch 
Preacher  come  hurrying  up  the  road  toward  my  house.  It  was 
June.  I  had  come  out  after  supper  to  sit  on  my  porch  and  look 
out  upon  the  quiet  fields.  I  remember  the  grateful  cool  of  the 
evening  air,  and  the  scents  rising  all  about  me  from  garden  and 
roadway  and  orchard.  I  was  tired  after  the  work  of  the  day  and 
sat  with  a  sort  of  complete  comfort  and  contentment  which 
comes  only  to  those  who  work  long  in  the  quiet  of  outdoor 

186 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  187 

places.  I  remember  the  thought  came  to  me,  as  it  has  come  in 
various  forms  so  many  times,  that  in  such  a  big  and  beautiful 
world  there  should  be  no  room  for  the  fever  of  unhappiness  or 
discontent. 

And  then  I  saw  McAlway  coming  up  the  road.  I  knew  in- 
stantly that  something  was  wrong.  His  step,  usually  so  de- 
deliberate,  was  rapid;  there  was  agitation  in  every  line  of  his 
countenance.  I  walked  down  through  the  garden  to  the  gate 
and  met  him  there.  Being  somewhat  out  of  breath  he  did  not 
speak  at  once.  So  I  said : 

"It  is  not,  after  all,  as  bad  as  you  anticipate." 

"David,"  he  said,  and  I  think  I  never  heard  him  speak  more 
seriously,  "it  is  bad  enough." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Can  you  hitch  up  your  horse  and  come  with  me — right 
away?" 

McAlway  helped  with  the  buckles  and  said  not  a  word.  In  ten 
minutes,  certainly  not  more,  we  were  driving  together  down  the 
lane. 

"Do  you  know  a  family  named  WilUams  living  on  the  north 
road  beyond  the  three  corners?"  asked  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

Instantly  a  vision  of  a  somewhat  dilapidated  house,  standing 
not  unpicturesquely  among  ill-kept  fields,  leaped  to  my  mind. 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "but  I  can't  remember  any  of  the  family  except 
a  gingham  girl  with  yellow  hair.  I  used  to  see  her  on  her  way  to 
school." 

"A  girl!"  he  said,  with  a  curious  note  in  his  voice;  "but  a 
woman  now." 

He  paused  a  moment;  then  he  continued  sadly: 

"As  I  grow  older  it  seems  a  shorter  and  shorter  step  between 
child  and  child.  David,  she  has  a  child  of  her  own." 

"But  I  didn't  know— she  isn't " 

"A  woods  child,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

I  could  not  find  a  word  to  say.  I  remember  the  hush  of  the 
evening  there  in  the  country  road,  the  soft  light  fading  in  the 
fields.  I  heard  a  whippoorwill  caUing  from  the  distant  woods. 

"They  made  it  hard  for  her,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher,  "espe- 


188  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

cially  her  older  brother.  About  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  she 
ran  away,  taking  her  baby  with  her.  They  found  a  note  saying 
they  would  never  again  see  her  aUve.  Her  mother  says  she  went 
toward  the  river." 

I  touched  up  the  mare.  For  a  few  minutes  the  Scotch  Preacher 
sat  silent,  thinking.  Then  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  tone  of  kind- 
ness in  his  voice, 

"She  was  a  child,  just  a  child.  When  I  talked  with  her  yester- 
day she  was  perfectly  docile  and  apparently  contented.  I  cannot 
imagine  her  driven  to  such  a  deed  of  desperation.  I  asked  her: 
Why  did  you  do  it,  Anna.?'  She  answered,  'I  don't  know:  I— 
I  don't  know!'  Her  reply  was  not  defiant  or  remorseful:  it  was 
merely  explanatory." 

He  remained  silent  again  for  a  long  time. 

"David,"  he  said  finally,  "I  sometimes  think  we  don't  know 
half  as  much  about  human  nature  as  we — we  preach.  If  we  did, 
I  think  we'd  be  more  careful  in  our  judgments." 

He  said  it  slowly,  tentatively:  I  knew  it  came  straight  from 
his  heart.  It  was  this  spirit,  more  than  the  title  he  bore,  far  more 
than  the  sermons  he  preached,  that  made  him  in  reality  the 
minister  of  our  community.  He  went  about  thinking  that,  after 
all,  he  didn't  know  much,  and  that  therefore  he  must  be  kind. 

As  I  drove  up  to  the  bridge,  the  Scotch  Preacher  put  one 
liand  on  the  reins.  I  stopped  the  horse  on  the  embankment  and 
we  both  stepped  out. 

"She  would  undoubtedly  have  come  down  this  road  to  the 
river,"  McAlway  said  in  a  low  voice. 

It  was  growing  dark.  When  I  walked  out  on  the  bridge  my 
legs  were  strangely  unsteady;  a  weight  seemed  pressing  on  my 
breast  so  that  my  breath  came  hard.  We  looked  down  into  the 
shallow,  placid  water:  the  calm  of  the  evening  was  upon  it;  the 
middle  of  the  stream  was  like  a  rumpled  glassy  ribbon,  but  the 
edges,  deep-shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  were  of  ?  mysterious 
darkness.  In  all  my  life  I  think  I  never  experienced  such  a  de- 
gree of  silence — of  breathless,  oppressive  silence.  It  seemed  as 
if,  at  any  instant,  it  must  burst  into  some  fearful  excess  of 
50und. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  189 

Suddenly  we  heard  a  voice — in  half-articulate  exclamation.  I 
turned,  every  nerve  strained  to  the  uttermost.  A  figure,  seem- 
ingly materialized  out  of  darkness  and  silence,  was  moving  on 
the  bridge. 

"Oh!— McAlway,"  a  voice  said. 

Then  I  heard  the  Scotch  Preacher  in  low  tones. 

"Have  you  seen  Anna  Williams?" 

"She  is  at  the  house,"  answered  the  voice. 

"Get  your  horse,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

I  ran  back  and  led  the  mare  across  the  bridge  (how  I  remem- 
ber, in  that  silence,  the  thunder  of  her  hoofs  on  the  loose 
boards!).  Just  at  the  top  of  the  Uttle  hill  leading  up  from  the 
bridge  the  two  men  turned  in  at  a  gate.  I  followed  quickly  and 
the  three  of  us  entered  the  house  together.  I  remember  the 
musty,  warm,  shut-in  odour  of  the  front  room.  I  heard  the  faint 
cry  of  a  child.  The  room  was  dim,  with  a  single  kerosene  lamp, 
but  I  saw  three  women  huddled  by  the  stove,  in  which  a  new 
fire  was  blazing.  Two  looked  up  as  we  entered,  with  feminine 
instinct  moving  aside  to  hide  the  form  of  the  third. 

"She's  all  right,  as  soon  as  she  gets  dry,"  one  of  them  said. 

The  other  woman  turned  to  us  half  complainingly : 

"She  ain't  said  a  single  word  since  we  got  her  in  here,  and  she 
won't  let  go  of  the  baby  for  a  minute." 

"She  don't  cry,"  said  the  other,  "but  just  sits  there  like  a 
statue." 

McAlway  stepped  forward  and  said: 

"Well— Anna?" 

The  girl  looked  up  for  the  first  time.  The  light  shone  full  in 
her  face:  a  look  I  shall  never  forget.  Yes,  it  was  the  girl  I  had 
seen  so  often,  and  yet  not  the  girl.  It  was  the  same  childish  face, 
but  all  marked  upon  with  inexplicable  wan  lines  of  a  certain 
mysterious  womanhood.  It  was  childish,  but  bearing  upon  it  an 
inexpressible  look  of  half-sad  dignity,  that  stirred  a  man's  heart 
to  its  profoundest  depths.  And  there  was  in  it,  too,  as  I  have 
thought  since,  a  something  I  have  seen  in  the  faces  of  old,  wise 
men:  a  Hght  (how  shall  I  explain  it?)  as  of  experience — of 
boundless  experience.  Her  hair  hung  in  wavy  dishevelment 


190  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

about  her  head  and  shoulders,  and  she  clung  passionately  to  the 
child  in  her  arms. 

The  Scotch  Preacher  had  said,  "Well — ^Anna?"  She  looked 
up  and  replied: 

"They  were  going  to  take  my  baby  away." 

"Were  they!"  exclaimed  McAlway  in  his  hearty  voice.  "Well, 
we'll  never  permit  that.  Who's  got  a  better  right  to  the  baby 
than  you,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Without  turning  her  head,  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and 
rolled  unheeded  down  her  face. 

"Yes,  sir.  Dr.  McAlway,"  the  man  said,  "I  was  coming  across 
the  bridge  with  the  cows  when  I  see  her  standing  there  in  the 
water,  her  skirts  all  floating  around  her.  She  was  hugging  the 
baby  up  to  her  face  and  saying  over  and  over,  just  like  this:  'I 
don't  dare!  Oh,  I  don't  dare!  But  I  must.  I  must.'  She  was  sort 
of  singin'  the  words:  1  don't  dare.  I  don't  dare,  but  I  must.'  I 
jumped  the  raiUng  and  run  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river. 
And  I  says,  'Come  right  out  o'  there';  and  she  turned  and  come 
out  just  as  gentle  as  a  child,  and  I  brought  her  up  here  to  the 
house." 

It  seemed  perfectly  natural  at  this  time  that  I  should  take  the 
girl  and  her  child  home  to  Harriet.  She  would  not  go  back  to 
her  own  home,  though  we  tried  to  persuade  her,  and  the  Scotch 
Preacher's  wife  was  visiting  in  the  city,  so  she  could  not  go  there. 
But  after  I  found  myself  driving  homeward  with  the  girl — while 
McAlway  went  over  the  hill  to  tell  her  family — the  mood  of 
action  passed.  It  struck  me  suddenly,  "What  will  Harriet  say?" 
Upon  which  my  heart  sank  curiously,  and  refused  to  resume  its 
natural  position. 

In  the  past  I  had  brought  her  tramps  and  peddlers  and  itin- 
erant preachers,  all  of  whom  she  had  taken  in  with  patience — 
but  this,  I  knew,  was  different.  For  a  few  minutes  I  wished  de- 
voutly I  were  in  Timbuctu  or  some  other  far  place.  And  then 
the  absurdity  of  the  situation  struck  me  all  at  once,  and  I 
couldn't  help  laughing  aloud. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  191 

"It's  a  tremendous  old  world,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Why,  any- 
thing may  happen  anywhere!" 

The  girl  stirred,  but  did  not  speak.  I  was  afraid  I  had 
frightened  her, 

"Are  you  cold?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  she  answered  faintly. 

I  could  think  of  nothing  whatever  to  say,  so  I  said  it: 

"Are  you  fond  of  hot  corn-meal  mush?" 

**Yes,  sir,"  very  faintly. 


A<\\ 


"With  cream  on  it — rich  yellow  cream — ^and  plenty  of  sugar?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  a  nickel  that's  what  we're  going  to  get!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

We  drove  up  the  lane  and  stopped  at  the  yard  gate.  Harriet 
opened  the  door.  I  led  the  small  dark  figure  into  the  warmth 
and  light  of  the  kitchen.  She  stood  helplessly  holding  the  baby 
tight  in  her  arms — as  forlorn  and  dishevelled  a  figure  as  one 
could  well  imagine. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "this  is  Anna  Williams." 

Harriet  gave  me  her  most  tremendous  look.  It  seemed  to  me 
at  that  moment  that  it  wasn't  my  sister  Harriet  at  all  that  I  was 
facing,  but  some  stranger  and  much  greater  person  than  I  had 
ever  known.  Every  man  has,  upon  occasion,  beheld  his  wife,  his 
sister,  his  mother  even,  become  suddenly  unknown,  suddenly 
commanding,  suddenly  greater  than  himself  or  any  other  man. 


192  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

For  d  woman  possesses  the  occult  power  of  becoming  instantly, 
mir^iCulously,  the  Accumulated  and  Personified  Customs,  Morals 
and  Institutions  of  the  Ages.  At  this  moment,  then,  I  felt  myself 
slowly  but  surely  shrinking  and  shrivelUng  up.  It  is  a  most  un- 
comfortable sensation  to  find  one's  self  face  to  face  with  Society- 
at-Large.  Under  such  circumstances  I  always  know  what  to  do. 
I  run.  So  I  clapped  my  hat  on  my  head,  declared  that  the  mare 
must  be  unharnessed  immediately,  and  started  for  the  door. 
Harriet  followed.  Once  outside  she  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

"David,  David,  DAVID,"  she  said. 

It  occurred  to  me  now  for  the  first  time  (which  shows  how 
stupid  I  am)  that  Harriet  had  already  heard  the  story  of  Anna 
Williams.  And  it  had  gained  so  much  bulk  and  robustity  in 
travelling,  as  such  stories  do  in  the  country,  that  I  have  no 
doubt  the  poor  child  seemed  a  sort  of  devastating  monster  of 
iniquity.  How  the  country  scourges  those  who  do  not  walk 
the  beaten  path!  In  the  careless  city  such  a  one  may  escape  to 
unfamiliar  streets  and  consort  with  unfamiliar  people,  and  still 
find  a  way  of  life,  but  here  in  the  country  the  eye  of  Society 
never  sleeps! 

For  a  moment  I  was  appalled  by  what  I  had  done.  Then  1 
thought  of  the  Harriet  I  knew  so  well:  the  inexhaustible  heart 
of  her.  With  a  sudden  inspiration  I  opened  the  kitchen  door  and 
we  both  looked  in.  The  girl  stood  motionless  just  where  I  left 
her:  an  infinitely  pathetic  figure. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "that  girl  is  hungry— and  cold." 

Well,  it  worked.  Instantly  Harriet  ceased  to  be  Society-at- 
Large  and  became  the  Harriet  I  know,  the  Harriet  of  infinite 
compassion  for  all  weak  creatures.  When  she  had  gone  in  I 
pulled  my  hat  down  and  went  straight  for  the  barn.  1  guess 
I  know  when  it's  wise  to  be  absent  from  places. 

I  unharnessed  the  mare,  and  watered  and  fed  her;  I  climbed 
up  into  the  loft  and  put  down  a  rackful  of  hay;  I  let  the  cows 
out  into  the  pasture  and  set  up  the  bars.  And  then  I  stood  by 
the  gate  and  looked  up  into  the  clear  June  sky.  No  man,  I  think, 
can  remain  long  silent  under  the  stars,  with  the  brooding,  mys- 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


193 


terious  night  around  about  him,  without  feeling,  poignantly,  how 
little  he  understands  anything,  how  inconsequential  his  actions 
are,  how  feeble  his  judgments. 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood  there  how  many  a  man,  deep  down 
in  his  heart,  knows  to  a  certainty  that  he  has  escaped  being  an 
outcast,  not  because  of  any  real  moral  strength  or  resolution  of 
his  own,  but  because  Society  has  bolstered  him  up,  hedged  him 
about  with  customs  and  restrictions  until  he  never  has  had  a 
really  good  opportunity  to  transgress.  And  some  do  not  sin 
for  very  lack  of  courage  and  originaUty :  they  are  helplessly  good. 


How  many  men  in  their  vanity  take  to  themselves  credit  for 
the  built-up  virtues  of  men  who  are  dead!  There  is  no  cause  for 
surprise  when  we  hear  of  a  "foremost  citizen,"  the  "leader  in  all 
good  works,"  suddenly  gone  wrong;  not  the  least  cause  for  sur- 
prise. For  it  was  not  he  that  was  moral,  but  Society.  Individually 
he  had  never  been  tested,  and  when  the  test  came  he  fell.  It 
will  give  us  a  large  measure  of  true  wisdom  if  we  stop  some- 
times when  we  have  resisted  a  temptation  and  ask  ourselves 
why,  at  that  moment,  we  did  right  and  not  wrong.  Was  it  the 
deep  virtue,  the  high  ideals  in  our  souls,  or  was  it  the  com- 
pulsion of  the  Society  around  us?  And  I  think  most  of  us  will 
be  astonished  to  discover  what  fragile  persons  we  really  are — 
in  ourselves. 

I  stopped  for  several  minutes  at  the  kitchen  door  before  I 
dared  to  go  in.  Then  I  stamped  vigorously  on  the  boards,  as  if  I 
had  come  rushing  up  to  the  house  without  a  doubt  in  my  mind — 


19^  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

I  even  whistled — and  opened  the  door  jauntily.  And  had  my 
pains  for  nothing! 

The  kitchen  was  empty,  but  full  of  comforting  and  homelike 
odours.  There  was  undoubtedly  hot  mush  in  the  kettle.  A  few 
minutes  later  Harriet  came  down  the  stairs.  She  held  up  one 
finger  warningly.  Her  face  was  transfigured. 

"David,"  she  whispered,  "the  baby's  asleep." 

So  I  tiptoed  across  the  room.  She  tiptoed  after  me.  Then  I 
faced  about,  and  we  both  stood  there  on  our  tiptoes,  holding 
our  breath — at  least  I  held  mine. 

"David,"  Harriet  whispered,  "did  you  see  the  baby.?" 

"No,"  I  whispered. 

"I  think  it's  the  finest  baby  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

When  I  was  a  boy,  and  my  great-aunt,  who  lived  for  many 
years  in  a  little  room  with  dormer  windows  at  the  top  of  my 
father's  house,  used  to  tell  me  stories  (the  best  I  ever  heard), 
I  was  never  content  with  the  endings  of  them.  "What  happened 
next.?"  I  remember  asking  a  hundred  times;  and  if  I  did  not 
ask  the  question  aloud  it  arose  at  least  in  my  own  mind. 

If  I  were  writing  fiction  I  might  go  on  almost  indefinitely  with 
the  story  of  Anna;  but  in  real  life  stories  have  a  curious  way  of 
coming  to  quick  fruition,  and  withering  away  after  having  cast 
the  seeds  of  their  immortality. 

"Did  you  see  the  baby?"  Harriet  had  asked.  She  said  no 
word  about  Anna:  a  BABY  had  come  into  the  world.  Already 
the  present  was  beginning  to  draw  the  charitable  curtains  of  its 
forgetfulness  across  this  simple  drama;  already  Harriet  and 
Anna  and  all  the  rest  of  us  were  beginning  to  look  to  the  "finest 
baby  we  ever  saw  in  all  our  lives." 

I  might,  indeed,  go  into  the  character  of  Anna  and  the  whys 
and  wherefores  of  her  story;  but  there  is  curiously  little  that  is 
strange  or  unusual  about  it.  It  was  just  Life.  A  few  days  with 
us  worked  miraculous  changes  in  the  girl;  like  some  stray 
kitten  brought  in  crying  from  the  cold,  she  curled  herself  up 
comfortably  there  in  our  home,  purring  her  contentment.  She 
was  not  in  the  least  a  tragic  figure:  though  down  deep  under 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  195 

the  curves  and  dimples  of  youth  there  was  something  finally 
resistant,  or  obstinate,  or  defiant — which  kept  its  counsel  re- 
garding the  past. 

It  is  curious  how  acquaintanceship  mitigates  our  judgments. 
We  classify  strangers  into  whose  careers  the  newspapers  or  our 
friends  give  us  glimpses  as  "bad"  or  "good";  we  separate  hu- 
manity into  inevitable  goathood  and  sheephood.  But  upon 
closer  acquaintance  a  man  comes  to  be  not  bad,  but  Ebenezer 
Smith  or  J.  Henry  Jones;  and  a  woman  is  not  good,  but  Nellie 
Morgan  or  Mrs.  Arthur  Cadwalader.  Take  it  in  our  own  cases. 
Some  people,  knowing  just  a  little  about  us,  might  call  us  pretty 
good  people;  but  we  know  that  down  in  our  hearts  lurk  the 
possibilities  (if  not  the  actual  accomplishment)  of  all  sorts  of 
things  not  at  all  good.  We  are  exceedingly  charitable  persons — 
toward  ourselves.  And  thus  we  let  other  people  live! 

The  other  day,  at  Harriet's  suggestion,  I  drove  to  town  by  the 
upper  road,  passing  the  Williams  place.  The  old  lady  has  a  pas- 
sion for  hollyhocks.  A  ragged  row  of  them  borders  the  dilapi- 
dated picket  fence  behind  which,  crowding  up  to  the  sociable 
road,  stands  the  house.  As  I  drive  that  way  it  always  seems  to 
look  out  at  me  like  some  half-earnest  worker,  inviting  a  chat 
about  the  weather  or  the  county  fair;  hence,  probably,  its  good- 
natured  dilapidation.  At  the  gate  I  heard  a  voice,  and  a  boy 
about  three  years  old,  in  a  soiled  gingham  apron,  a  sturdy,  blue- 
eyed  little  chap,  whose  face  was  still  eloquent  of  his  recent 
breakfast,  came  running  to  meet  me.  I  stopped  the  mare.  A 
moment  later  a  woman  was  at  the  gate  between  the  rows  of 
hollyhocks;  when  she  saw  me  she  began  hastily  to  roll  down 
her  sleeves. 

"Why,  Mr.  Grayson!" 

"How's  the  boy,  Anna?" 

And  it  was  the  cheerful  talk  we  had  there  by  the  roadside,  and 
the  sight  of  the  sturdy  boy  playing  in  the  sunshine — and  the 
hollyhocks,  and  the  dilapidated  house — that  brought  to  memory 
the  old  story  of  Anna  which  I  here  set  down,  not  because  k 
carries  any  moral,  but  because  it  is  a  common  little  piece  out  of 
real  life  in  which  Harriet  and  I  have  been  interested. 


VI 

THE  DRUNKARD 


I 


T  IS  A  STRANGE  THING!  Adventurc  I  lookcd  for  her  high  and  I 
looked  for  her  low,  and  she  passed  my  door  in  a  tattered  gar- 
ment— unheeded.  For  I  had  neither  the  eye  of  simplicity  nor  the 
heart  of  humiUty.  One  day  I  looked  for  her  anew  and  I  saw  her 
beckoning  from  the  Open  Road;  and  underneath  the  tags  and 
tatters  I  caught  the  gleam  of  her  celestial  garment;  and  I  went 
with  her  into  a  new  world. 

I  have  had  a  singular  adventure,  in  which  I  have  made  a 
friend.  And  I  have  seen  new  things  which  are  also  true. 

My  friend  is  a  drunkard — at  least  so  I  call  him,  following  the 
custom  of  the  country.  On  his  way  from  town  he  used  often 
to  come  by  my  farm.  I  could  hear  him  singing  afar  off.  Begin- 
ning at  the  bridge,  where  on  still  days  one  can  hear  the  rattle 
of  a  wagon  on  the  loose  boards,  he  sang  in  a  peculiar  clear  high 
voice.  I  make  no  further  comment  upon  the  singing,  nor  the 
cause  of  it;  but  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  when  the  air  was  still 
— and  he  usually  came  in  the  evening— I  often  heard  the  cadences 

196 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  197 

of  his  song  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Then  I  saw  him  come  driving 
by  my  farm,  sitting  on  the  spring  seat  of  his  one-horse  wagon, 
and  if  he  chanced  to  see  me  in  my  field,  he  would  take  off  his 
hat  and  make  me  a  grandiloquent  bow,  but  never  for  a  moment 
stop  his  singing.  And  so  he  passed  by  the  house  and  I,  with  a 
smile,  saw  him  moving  up  the  hill  in  the  north  road,  until  finally 
his  voice,  still  singing,  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Once  I  happened  to  reach  the  house  just  as  the  singer  was 
passing,  and  Harriet  said: 

"There  goes  that  drunkard." 

It  gave  me  an  indescribable  shock.  Of  course  I  had  known 
as  much,  and  yet  I  had  not  directly  appHed  the  term.  I  had  not 
thought  of  my  singer  as  that,  for  I  had  often  been  conscious  in 
spite  of  myself,  alone  in  my  fields,  of  something  human  and 
cheerful  which  had  touched  me,  in  passing. 

After  Harriet  applied  her  name  to  my  singer,  I  was  of  two 
minds  concerning  him.  I  struggled  with  myself:  I  tried  instinc- 
tively to  discipline  my  pulses  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  his 
singing.  For  was  he  not  a  drunkard.?  Lord!  how  we  get  our 
moralities  mixed  up  with  our  realities! 

And  then  one  evening  when  I  saw  him  coming — I  had  been 
a  long  day  alone  in  my  fields — I  experienced  a  sudden  revulsion 
of  feeling.  With  an  indescribable  joyousness  of  adventure  I 
stepped  out  toward  the  fence  and  pretended  to  be  hard  at  work. 

"After  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  "this  is  a  large  world,  with  room 
in  it  for  many  curious  people." 

I  waited  in  excitement.  When  he  came  near  me  I  straightened 
up  just  as  though  I  had  seen  him  for  the  first  time.  When  he 
lifted  his  hat  to  me  I  lifted  my  hat  as  grandiloquently  as  he. 

"How  are  you,  neighbour?"  I  asked. 

He  paused  for  a  single  instant  and  gave  me  a  smile;  then  he 
replaced  his  hat  as  though  he  had  far  more  important  business 
to  attend  to,  and  went  on  up  the  road. 

My  next  glimpse  of  him  was  a  complete  surprise  to  me.  I  saw 
him  on  the  street  in  town.  Harriet  pointed  him  out,  else  I  should 
never  have  recognized  him:  a  quiet,  shy,  modest  man,  as 
different  as  one  could  imagine  from  the  singer  I  had  seen  so 


198  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

often  passing  my  farm.  He  wore  neat,  worn  clothes;  and  his 
horse  stood  tied  in  front  of  the  store.  He  had  brought  his  honey 
to  town  to  sell.  He  was  a  bee-man. 

I  stopped  and  asked  him  about  his  honey,  and  whether  the 
fall  flowers  had  been  plenty;  I  ran  my  eye  over  his  horse,  and  said 
that  it  seemed  to  be  a  good  animal.  But  I  could  get  very  little 
from  him,  and  that  little  in  a  rather  low  voice.  I  came  away 
with  my  interest  whetted  to  a  still  keener  edge.  How  a  man 
has  come  to  be  what  he  is — is  there  any  discovery  better  worth 
making? 

After  that  day  in  town  I  watched  for  the  bee-man,  and  I  saw 
him  often  on  his  way  to  town,  silent,  somewhat  bent  forward  in 
his  seat,  driving  his  horse  with  circumspection,  a  Dr.  Jekyll  of 
propriety;  and  a  few  hours  later  he  would  come  homeward  a 
wholly  different  person,  straight  of  back,  joyous  of  mien,  sing- 
ing his  songs  in  his  high  clear  voice,  a  very  Hyde  of  reckless- 
ness. Even  the  old  horse  seemed  changed:  he  held  his  head 
higher  and  stepped  with  a  quicker  pace.  When  the  bee-man 
went  toward  town  he  never  paused,  nor  once  looked  around  to 
see  me  in  my  field;  but  when  he  came  back  he  watched  for  me, 
and  when  I  responded  to  his  bow  he  would  sometimes  stop 
and  reply  to  my  greeting. 

One  day  he  came  from  town  on  foot  and  when  he  saw  me,  even 
though  I  was  some  distance  away,  he  approached  the  fence  and 
took  off  his  hat,  and  held  out  his  hand.  I  walked  over  toward 
him.  I  saw  his  full  face  for  the  first  time:  a  rather  handsome 
face.  The  hair  was  thin  and  curly,  the  forehead  generous  and 
smooth;  but  the  chin  was  small.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed 
and  his  eyes — his  eyes  burned!  I  shook  his  hand. 

"I  had  hoped,"  I  said,  "that  you  would  stop  sometime  as  you 
went  by." 

"Well,  I've  wanted  to  stop — ^but  Fm  a  busy  man.  I  have  im- 
portant matters  in  hand  almost  all  the  time." 

"You  usually  drive." 

"Yes,  ordinarily  I  drive.  I  do  not  use  a  team,  but  I  have  in  view 
a  fine  span  of  roadsters.  One  of  these  days  you  will  see  me  going 
by  your  farm  in  style.  My  wife  and  I  both  enjoy  driving." 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  199 

I  wish  I  could  here  convey  the  tone  of  buoyancy  with  which 
he  said  these  words.  There  was  a  largeness  and  confidence  in 
them  that  carried  me  away.  He  told  me  that  he  was  now 
"working  with  the  experts" — those  were  his  words — and  that  he 
would  soon  begin  building  a  house  that  would  astonish  the  coun- 
try. Upon  this  he  turned  abruptly  away,  but  came  back  and 
with  fine  courtesy  shook  my  hand. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  busy  man,  Mr.  Grayson — and  a 
happy  man." 

So  he  set  oflF  down  the  road,  and  as  he  passed  my  house  he  be- 
gan singing  again  in  his  high  voice.  I  walked  away  with  a  feel- 
ing of  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  sorrow.  It  was  a  strange  case! 

Gradually  I  became  really  acquainted  with  the  bee-man,  at 
first  with  the  exuberant,  confident,  imaginative,  home-going 
bee-man;  far  more  slowly  with  the  shy,  reserved,  town  ward- 
bound  bee-man.  It  was  quite  an  adventure,  my  first  talk  with 
the  shy  bee-man.  I  was  driving  home;  I  met  him  near  the  lower 
bridge.  I  cudgeled  my  brain  to  think  of  some  way  to  get  at 
him.  As  he  passed,  I  leaned  out  and  said : 

"Friend,  will  you  do  me  a  favour?  I  neglected  to  stop  at  the 
post-office.  Would  you  call  and  see  whether  anything  has  been 
left  for  me  in  the  box  since  the  carrier  started?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  glancing  up  at  me,  but  turning  his  head 
swiftly  aside  again. 

On  his  way  back  he  stopped  and  left  me  a  paper.  He  told  me 
volubly  about  the  way  he  would  run  the  post-office  if  he  were 
"in  a  place  of  suitable  authority." 

"Great  things  are  possible,"  he  said,  "to  the  man  of  ideas." 

At  this  point  began  one  of  the  by-plays  of  my  acquaintance 
with  the  bee-man.  The  exuberant  bee-man  referred  disparagingly 
to  the  shy  bee-man. 

"I  must  have  looked  pretty  seedy  and  stupid  this  morning  on 
my  way  in.  I  was  up  half  the  night;  but  I  feel  all  right  now." 

The  next  time  I  met  the  shy  bee-man  he  on  his  part  apologized 
for  the  exuberant  bee-man — hesitatingly,  falteringly,  winding  up 
with  the  words,  "I  think  you  will  understand."  I  grasped  his 
hand,  and  left  him  with  a  wan  smile  on  his  face.  Instinctively 


200 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


I  came  to  treat  the  two  men  in  a  wholly  different  manner.  With 
the  one  I  was  blustering,  hail-fellow-well-met,  listening  with 
eagerness  to  his  expansive  talk;  but  to  the  other  I  said  little,  feel- 
ing my  way  slowly  to  his  friendship,  for  I  could  not  help  looking 
upon  him  as  a  pathetic  figure.  He  needed  a  friend!  The  ex- 
uberant bee-man  was  sufficient  unto  himself,  glorious  in  his 
visions,  and  I  had  from  him  no  Httle  entertainment. 


I  told  Harriet  about  my  adventures :  they  did  not  meet  with 
her  approval.  She  said  I  was  encouraging  a  vice. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "go  over  and  see  his  wife.  I  wonder  what 
she  thinks  about  it." 

"Thinks!"  exclaimed  Harriet.  "What  should  the  wife  of  a 
drunkard  think.?" 

But  she  went  over.  As  soon  as  she  returned  I  saw  that  some- 
thing was  wrong,  but  I  asked  no  questions.  During  supper  she 
was  extraordinarily  preoccupied,  and  it  was  not  until  an  hour 
or  more  afterward  that  she  came  into  my  room. 

"David,"  she  said,  "I  can't  understand  some  things." 

"Isn't  human  nature  doing  what  it  ought  to?"  I  asked. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  joked  with. 

"David,  that  man's  wife  doesn't  seem  to  be  sorry  because  he 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  201 

comes  home  drunken  every  week  or  two!  I  talked  with  her 
about  it  and  what  do  you  think  she  said?  She  said  she  knew  it 
was  wrong,  but  she  intimated  that  when  he  was  in  that  state  she 
loved — Hked— him  all  the  better.  Is  it  beUevable?  She  said: 
'Perhaps  you  won't  understand— it's  wrong,  I  know,  but  when 
he  comes  home  that  way  he  seems  so  full  of — life.  He — ^he  seems 
io  understand  me  better  then!'  She  was  heartbroken,  one  could 
see  that,  but  she  would  not  admit  it.  I  leave  it  to  you,  David, 
what  can  anyone  do  with  a  woman  like  that?  How  is  the  man 
ever  to  overcome  his  habits?" 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  when  we  ask  questions  directly  of  life, 
how  often  the  answers  are  unexpected  and  confusing.  Our  logic 
becomes  illogical!  Our  stories  won't  turn  out. 

She  told  much  more  about  her  interview:  the  neat  home,  the 
bees  in  the  orchard,  the  well-kept  garden.  "When  he's  sober," 
she  said,  "he  seems  to  be  a  steady,  hard  worker." 

After  that  I  desired  more  than  ever  to  see  deep  into  the  life 
of  the  strange  bee-man.  Why  was  he  what  he  was  ? 

And  at  last  the  time  came,  as  things  come  to  him  who  desires 
them  faithfully  enough.  One  afternoon  not  long  ago,  a  fine 
autumn  afternoon,  when  the  trees  were  glorious  on  the  hills, 
the  Indian  summer  sun  never  softer,  I  was  tramping  along  a 
wood  lane  far  back  of  my  farm.  And  at  the  roadside,  near  the 
trunk  of  an  oak  tree,  sat  my  friend,  the  bee-man.  He  was  a 
picture  of  despondency,  one  long  hand  hanging  limp  between 
his  knees,  his  head  bowed  down.  When  he  saw  me  he  straight- 
ened up,  looked  at  me,  and  settled  back  again.  My  heart  went 
out  to  him,  and  I  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  finer  afternoon?"  I  asked. 

He  glanced  up  at  the  sky. 

"Fine?"  he  answered  vaguely,  as  if  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him. 

I  saw  instantly  what  the  matter  was;  the  exuberant  bee-man 
was  in  process  of  transformation  into  the  shy  bee-man.  I  don't 
know  exactly  how  it  came  about,  for  such  things  are  difficult  to 
txplain,  but  I  led  him  to  talk  of  himself. 

"After  it  is  all  over,"  he  said,  "of  course  I  am  ashamed  of  my- 


202  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

self.  You  don't  know,  Mr.  Grayson,  what  it  all  means.  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself  now,  and  yet  I  know  I  shall  do  it  again." 

"No,"  I  said,  "you  will  not  do  it  again." 

"Yes,  I  shall.  Something  inside  of  me  argues:  Why  should 
you  be  sorry?  Were  you  not  free  for  a  whole  afternoon?" 

"Free?"  I  asked. 

"Yes — free.  You  will  not  understand.  But  every  day  I  work- 
work,  work.  I  have  friends,  but  somehow  I  can't  get  to  them; 
I  can't  even  get  to  my  wife.  It  seems  as  if  a  wall  hemmed  me 
in,  as  if  I  were  bound  to  a  rock  which  I  couldn't  get  away  from. 
I  am  also  afraid.  When  I  am  sober  I  know  how  to  do  great 
things,  but  I  can't  do  them.  After  a  few  glasses — I  never  take 
more — I  not  only  know  I  can  do  great  things,  but  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  really  doing  them." 

"But  you  never  do?" 

"No,  I  never  do,  but  I  feel  that  I  can.  All  the  bonds  break 
and  the  wall  falls  down  and  I  am  free.  I  can  really  touch  people, 
I  feel  friendly  and  neighbourly." 

He  was  talking  eagerly  now,  trying  to  explain,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  said,  how  it  was  that  he  did  what  he  did. 
He  told  me  how  beautiful  it  made  the  world,  where  before  it 
was  miserable  and  friendless,  how  he  thought  of  great  things 
and  made  great  plans,  how  his  home  seemed  finer  and  better  to 
him,  and  his  work  more  noble.  The  man  had  a  real  gift  of 
imagination  and  spoke  with  an  eagerness  and  eloquence  that 
stirred  me  deeply.  I  was  almost  on  the  point  of  asking  him 
where  his  magic  liquor  was  to  be  found!  When  he  finally  gave 
me  an  opening,  I  said: 

"I  think  I  understand.  Many  men  I  know  are  in  some  re- 
spects drunkards.  They  all  want  some  way  to  escape  themselves 
— to  be  free  of  their  own  limitations." 

"That's  it  I  That's  it!"  he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

We  sat  for  a  time  side  by  side,  saying  nothing.  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  that  line  of  Virgil  referring  to  quite  another  sort 
of  intoxication: 

"With  Voluntary  dreams  they  cheat  their  minds,'' 


203 


204  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

Instead  of  that  beautiful  unity  of  thought  and  action  which 
marks  the  finest  character,  here  was  this  poor  tragedy  of  the 
divided  hfe.  When  Fate  would  destroy  a  man  it  first  separates 
his  forces!  It  drives  him  to  think  one  way  and  act  another;  it 
encourages  him  to  seek  through  outward  stimulation — whether 
drink,  or  riches,  or  fame — a  deceptive  and  unworthy  satisfaction 
in  place  of  that  true  contentment  which  comes  only  from  unity 
within.  No  man  can  be  two  men  successfully. 

So  we  sat  and  said  nothing.  What  indeed  can  any  man  say 
to  another  under  such  circumstances  ?  As  Bobbie  Burns  remarks 
out  of  the  depths  of  his  own  experience : 

"What's  done  we  partly  may  compute 
But  i{now  not  what's  resisted." 

Fve  always  felt  that  the  best  thing  one  man  can  give  another 
is  the  warm  hand  of  understanding.  And  yet  when  I  thought  of 
the  pathetic,  shy  bee-man,  hemmed  in  by  his  sunless  walls,  I 
felt  that  I  should  also  say  something.  Seeing  two  men  struggling 
shall  I  not  assist  the  better?  Shall  I  let  the  sober  one  be  despoiled 
by  him  who  is  riotous?  There  are  reaHties,  but  there  are  also 
moralities — if  we  can  keep  them  properly  separated. 

"Most  of  us,"  I  said  finally,  "are  in  some  respects  drunkards. 
We  don't  give  it  so  harsh  a  name,  but  we  are  just  that.  Drunken- 
ness is  not  a  mere  matter  of  intoxicating  liquors;  it  goes  deeper 
— far  deeper.  Drunkenness  is  the  failure  of  a  man  to  control  his 
thoughts." 

The  bee-man  sat  silent,  gazing  out  before  him.  I  noted  the  blue 
veins  in  the  hand  that  lay  on  his  knee.  It  came  over  me  with 
sudden  amusement  and  I  said: 

"I  often  get  drunk  myself." 

"You?" 

"Yes-dreadfully  drunk." 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed — for  the  first  time!  And  I 
laughed,  too.  Do  you  know,  there's  a  lot  of  human  nature  in 
people!  And  when  you  think  you  are  deep  in  tragedy,  behold, 
humour  lurks  just  around  the  corner! 

"I  used  to  laugh  at  it  a  good  deal  more  than  I  do  now,"  he 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


205 


said.  "I've  been  through  it  all.  Sometimes  when  I  go  to  town 
I  say  to  myself,  'I  will  not  turn  at  that  corner,'  but  when  I  come 
to  the  corner,  I  do  turn.  Then  I  say  1  will  not  go  into  that  bar,' 
but  I  do  go  in.  'I  will  not  order  anything  to  drink,'  I  say  to 
myself,  and  then  I  hear  myself  talking  aloud  to  the  barkeeper 
just  as  though  I  were  some  other  person.  'Give  me  a  glass  of 
rye,'  I  say,  and  I  stand  oil  looking  at  myself,  very  angry  and  sor- 


rov^^ful.  But  gradually  I  seem  to  grow  weaker  and  weaker — or 
rather  stronger  and  stronger — for  my  brain  begins  to  become 
clear,  and  I  see  things  and  feel  things  I  never  saw  or  felt  before. 
I  want  to  sing." 

"And  you  do  sing,"  I  said. 

"I  do,  indeed,"  he  responded,  laughing,  "and  it  seems  to  me 
the  most  beautiful  music  in  the  world." 

"Sometimes,"  I  said,  "when  I'm  on  my  kind  of  spree,  I  try 
not  so  much  to  empty  my  mind  of  the  thoughts  which  bother 
me,  but  rather  to  fill  my  mind  with  other,  stronger  thoughts " 

Before  I  could  finish  he  had  interrupted : 

"Haven't  I  tried  that,  too?  Don't  I  think  of  other  things?  I 
think  of  bees — and  that  leads  me  to  honey,  doesn't  it  ?  And  that 


206  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

makes  me  think  of  putting  the  honey  in  the  wagon  and  taking  it 
to  town.  Then,  of  course,  I  think  how  it  will  sell.  Instantly, 
stronger  than  you  can  imagine,  I  see  a  dime  in  my  hand.  Then 
it  appears  on  the  wet  bar.  I  smell  the  smell  of  the  Hquor.  And 
there  you  are!" 

We  did  not  talk  much  more  that  day.  We  got  up  and  shook 
hands  and  looked  each  other  in  the  eye.  The  bee-man  turned 
away,  but  came  back  hesitatingly. 

"I  am  glad  of  this  talk,  Mr.  Grayson.  It  makes  me  feel  like 
taking  hold  again.  I  have  been  in  hell  for  years '* 

"Of  course,"  I  said.  "You  needed  a  friend.  You  and  I  will 
come  up  together." 

As  I  walked  toward  home  that  evening  I  felt  a  curious  warmth 
of  satisfaction  in  my  soul — and  I  marvelled  at  the  many  strange 
things  that  are  to  be  found  upon  this  miraculous  earth. 

I  suppose,  if  I  were  writing  a  story,  I  should  stop  at  this 
point;  but  I  am  dealing  in  life.  And  life  does  not  always  respond 
to  our  impatience  with  satisfactory  moral  conclusions.  Life  is 
inconclusive:  quite  open  at  the  end.  I  had  a  vision  of  a  new 
life  for  my  neighbour,  the  bee-man — and  have  it  yet,  for  I  have 
not  done  with  him — but 

Last  evening,  and  that  is  why  I  have  been  prompted  to  write 
the  whole  story,  my  bee-man  came  again  along  the  road  by  my 
farm;  my  exuberant  bee-man.  I  heard  him  singing  afar  off. 

He  did  not  see  me  as  he  went  by,  but  as  I  stood  looking  out 
at  him,  it  came  over  me  with  a  sudden  sense  of  largeness  and 
quietude  that  the  sun  shone  on  him  as  genially  as  it  did  on 
me,  and  that  the  leaves  did  not  turn  aside  from  him,  nor  the 
birds  stop  singing  when  he  passed. 

"He  also  belongs  here,"  I  said. 

And  I  watched  him  as  he  mounted  the  distant  hill,  until  I 
could  no  longer  hear  the  high  clear  cadences  of  his  song.  And 
it  seemed  to  me  that  something  human,  in  passing,  had  touched 
me. 


VII 
AN  OLD  MAID 


O, 


'ne  of  my  neighbours  whom  I  never  have  chanced  to  men- 
tion before  in  these  writings  is  a  certain  Old  Maid.  She  Uves 
about  two  miles  from  my  farm  in  a  small  white  house  set  in 
the  midst  of  a  modest,  neat  garden  with  well-kept  apple  trees 
in  the  orchard  behind  it.  She  lives  all  alone  save  for  a  good- 
humoured,  stupid  nephew  who  does  most  of  the  work  on  the 
farm — and  does  it  a  little  unwillingly.  Harriet  and  I  had  not  been 
here  above  a  week  when  we  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss 
Aiken,  or  rather  she  made  our  acquaintance.  For  she  fills  the 
place,  most  important  in  a  country  community,  of  a  sensitive 
social  tentacle — reaching  out  to  touch  with  sympathy  the 
stranger.  Harriet  was  amused  at  first  by  what  she  considered  an 
almost  unwarrantable  curiosity,  but  we  soon  formed  a  genuine 
liking  for  the  little  old  lady,  and  since  then  we  have  often  seen 
her  in  her  home,  and  often  she  has  come  to  ours. 

She  was  here  only  last  night.  I  considered  her  as  she  sat  rock- 
ing in  front  of  our  fire;  a  picture  of  wholesome  comfort.  I  have 
had  much  to  say  of  contentment.  She  seems  really  to  live  it, 
although  I  have  found  that  contentment  is  easier  to  discover 

207 


208  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

in  the  lives  of  our  neighbours  than  in  our  own.  All  her  life  long 
she  has  lived  here  in  this  community,  a  w^orld  of  small  things, 
one  is  tempted  to  say,  vv^ith  a  sort  of  expected  and  predictable 
life.  I  thought  last  night,  as  I  observed  her  gently  stirring  her 
rocking-chair,  how  her  life  must  be  made  up  of  small,  often- 
repeated  events:  pancakes,  puddings,  patchings,  who  knows 
what  other  orderly,  habitual,  minute  affairs  ?  Who  knows  ?  Who 
knows  when  he  looks  at  you  or  at  me  that  there  is  anything 
in  us  beyond  the  humdrummery  of  this  day? 

In  front  of  her  house  are  two  long,  boarded  beds  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  mignonette  and  petunias  chiefly,  and  over 
the  small,  very  white  door  with  its  shiny  knob,  creeps  a  white 
clematis  vine.  Just  inside  the  hall-door  you  will  discover  a  bright, 
clean,  oval  rag  rug,  which  prepares  you,  as  small  things  lead  to 
greater,  for  the  larger,  brighter,  cleaner  rug  of  the  sitting-room. 
There  on  the  centre-table  you  will  discover  "Snow  Bound," 
by  John  Greenleaf  Whittier;  Tupper*s  Poems;  a  large  embossed 
Bible;  the  family  plush  album;  and  a  book,  with  a  gilt  ladder 
on  the  cover  which  leads  upward  to  gilt  stars,  called  the  "Path 
of  Life."  On  the  wall  are  two  companion  pictures  of  a  rosy  fat 
child,  in  faded  gilt  frames,  one  called  "Wide  Awake,"  the  other 
"Fast  Asleep."  Not  far  away,  in  a  corner,  on  the  top  of  the  wal- 
nut whatnot,  is  a  curious  vase  filled  with  pampas  plumes;  there 
are  sea-shells  and  a  piece  of  coral  on  the  shelf  below.  And  right 
in  the  midst  of  the  room  are  three  very  large  black  rocking- 
chairs  with  cushions  in  every  conceivable  and  available  place — 
including  cushions  on  the  arms.  Two  of  them  are  for  you 
and  me,  if  we  should  come  in  to  call;  the  other  is  for  the  cat. 

When  you  sit  down  you  can  look  out  between  the  starchiest 
of  starchy  curtains  into  the  yard,  where  there  is  an  innumerable 
busy  flock  of  chickens.  She  keeps  chickens,  and  all  the  important 
ones  are  named.  She  has  one  called  Martin  Luther,  another  is 
Josiah  Gilbert  Holland.  Once  she  came  over  to  our  house  with 
a  basket,  from  one  end  of  which  were  thrust  the  sturdy  red  legs 
of  a  pullet.  She  informed  us  that  she  had  brought  us  one  of 
Evangeline's  daughters. 

But  I  am  getting  out  of  the  house  before  I  am  fairly  well  into 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


209 


it.  The  sitting-room  expresses  Miss  Aiken;  but  not  so  well, 
somehow,  as  the  immaculate  bedroom  beyond,  into  which,  upon 
one  occasion,  I  was  permitted  to  steal  a  modest  glimpse.  It  was 
of  an  incomparable  neatness  and  order,  all  hung  about — or  so  it 
seemed  to  me — with  white  starchy  things,  and  ornamented  with 
bright  (but  inexpensive)  nothings.  In  this  wonderful  bedroom 
there  is  a  secret  and  sacred  drawer  into  which,  once  in  her  life, 
Harriet  had  a  glimpse.  It  contains  the  clothes,  all  gently  folded. 


exhaling  an  odour  of  lavender,  in  which  our  friend  will  appear 
when  she  has  closed  her  eyes  to  open  them  no  more  upon  this 
earth.  In  such  calm  readiness  she  awaits  her  time. 

Upon  the  bureau  in  this  sacred  apartment  stands  a  small  rose- 
wood box,  which  is  locked,  into  which  no  one  in  our  neighbour- 
hood has  had  so  much  as  a  single  peep.  I  should  not  dare,  of 
course,  to  speculate  upon  its  contents;  perhaps  an  old  letter  or 
two,  "a  ring  and  a  rose,"  a  ribbon  that  is  more  than  a  ribbon,  a 
picture  that  is  more  than  art.  Who  can  tell?  As  I  passed  that 
way  I  fancied  I  could  distinguish  a  faint,  mysterious  odour  which 
I  associated  with  the  rosewood  box:  an  old-fashioned  odour 
composed  of  many  simples. 


210  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

On  the  stand  near  the  head  of  the  bed  and  close  to  the 
candlestick  is  a  Bible — a  little,  familiar,  daily  Bible,  very  different 
indeed  from  the  portentous  and  imposing  family  Bible  which 
reposes  on  the  centre-table  in  the  front  room,  which  is  never 
opened  except  to  record  a  death.  It  has  been  well  worn,  this 
small  nightly  Bible,  by  much  handling.  Is  there  a  care  or  a 
trouble  in  this  world,  here  is  the  sure  talisman.  She  seeks  (and 
finds)  the  inspired  text.  Wherever  she  opens  the  book  she  seizes 
the  first  words  her  eyes  fall  upon  as  a  prophetic  message  to  her. 
Then  she  goes  forth  like  some  David  with  his  sling,  so  pan- 
oplied with  courage  that  she  is  daunted  by  no  Goliath  of  the 
Philistines.  Also  she  has  a  worship  fulness  of  all  ministers.  Some- 
times when  the  Scotch  Preacher  comes  to  tea  and  remarks  that 
her  pudding  is  good,  I  firmly  believe  that  she  interprets  the 
words  into  a  spiritual  message  for  her. 

Besides  the  drawer,  the  rosewood  box,  and  the  worn  Bible, 
there  is  a  certain  Black  Cape.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  attempt 
a  description,  but  I  can  say  with  some  assurance  that  it  also 
occupies  a  shrine.  It  may  not  be  in  the  inner  sanctuary,  but  it 
certainly  occupies  a  goodly  part  of  the  outer  porch  of  the  temple. 
All  this,  of  course,  is  figurative,  for  the  cape  hangs  just  inside 
the  closet  door  on  a  hanger,  with  a  white  cloth  over  the  shoul- 
ders to  keep  off  the  dust.  For  the  vanities  of  the  world  enter  even 
such  a  sanctuary  as  this.  I  wish,  indeed,  that  you  could  see  Miss 
Aiken  wearing  her  cape  on  a  Sunday  in  the  late  fall  when  she 
comes  to  church,  her  sweet  old  face  shining  under  her  black 
hat,  her  old-fashioned  silk  skirt  giving  out  an  audible,  not  unim- 
pressive sound  as  she  moves  down  the  aisle.  With  what  dignity 
she  steps  into  her  pew!  With  what  care  she  sits  down  so  that  she 
may  not  crush  the  cookies  in  her  ample  pocket;  with  what  meek 
pride — if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  meek  pride — she  looks  up  at 
the  Scotch  Preacher  as  he  stands  sturdily  in  his  pulpit  announc- 
ing the  first  hymn!  And  many  an  eye  turning  that  way  to  look 
turns  with  affection. 

Several  times  Harriet  and  I  have  been  with  her  to  tea.  Like 
many  another  genius,  she  has  no  conception  of  her  own  art  in 
such  matters  as  apple  puddings.  She  herself  prefers  graham 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  211 

gems,  in  which  she  beHeves  there  inheres  a  certain  mysterious 
efficacy.  She  bakes  gems  on  Monday  and  has  them  steamed  dur- 
ing the  remainder  o£  the  week — with  tea. 

And  as  a  sort  of  dessert  she  tells  us  about  the  Danas,  the 
Aikens  and  the  Carnahans,  who  are,  in  various  relationships, 
her  progenitors.  We  gravitate  into  the  other  room,  and  presently 
she  shows  us,  in  the  plush  album,  the  portraits  of  various  cousins, 
aunts  and  uncles.  And  by-and-by  Harriet  warms  up  and  begins 
to  tell  about  the  Scribners,  the  Macintoshes,  and  the  Strayers, 
who  are  our  progenitors. 


"The  Aikens,"  says  Miss  Aiken,  "were  always  like  that- 
downright  and  outspoken.  It  is  an  Aiken  trait.  No  Aiken  could 
ever  help  blurting  out  the  truth  if  he  knew  he  were  to  die  for 
it  the  next  minute." 

"That  was  like  the  Macintoshes,"  Harriet  puts  in.  "Old  Grand- 
father Macintosh " 

By  this  time  I  am  settled  comfortably  in  the  cushioned  rocking- 
chair  to  watch  the  fray.  Miss  Aiken  advances  a  Dana,  Harriet 
counters  with  a  Strayer.  Miss  Aiken  deploys  the  Carnahans  in 
open  order,  upon  which  Harriet  entrenches  herself  with  the 
heroic  Scribners  and  lets  fly  a  Macintosh  who  was  a  general  in 
the  colonial  army.  Surprised,  but  not  defeated,  Miss  Aiken  with- 


212  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

draws  in  good  order,  covering  her  retreat  with  two  Mayflower 
ancestors,  the  existence  of  whom  she  estabUshes  with  a  blue 
cup  and  an  ancient  silver  spoon.  No  one  knows  the  joy  of 
fighting  relatives  until  he  has  watched  such  a  battle,  following 
the  complete  comfort  of  a  good  supper. 

If  any  one  is  sick  in  the  community  Miss  Aiken  hears  instantly 
of  it  by  a  sort  of  wireless  telegraphy,  or  telepathy  which  would 
astonish  a  mystery-loving  East  Indian.  She  appears  with  her 
little  basket,  which  has  two  brown  flaps  for  covers  opening  from 
the  middle  and  with  a  spring  in  them  somewhere  so  that  they 
fly  shut  with  a  snap.  Out  of  this  she  takes  a  bowl  of  chicken 
broth,  a  jar  of  ambrosial  jelly,  a  cake  of  delectable  honey  and  a 
bottle  of  celestial  raspberry  shrub.  If  the  patient  will  only  eat, 
he  will  immediately  rise  up  and  walk.  Or  if  he  dies,  it  is  a 
pleasant  sort  of  death.  I  have  myself  thought  on  several  occasions 
of  being  taken  with  a  brief  fit  of  sickness. 

In  telling  all  these  things  about  Miss  Aiken,  which  seem  to 
describe  her,  I  have  told  only  the  commonplace,  the  expected  or 
predictable  details.  Often  and  often  I  pause  when  I  see  an  inter- 
esting man  or  woman  and  ask  myself:  "How,  after  all,  does  this 
person  live?"  For  we  all  know  it  is  not  chiefly  by  the  clothes 
we  wear  or  the  house  we  occupy  or  the  friends  we  touch.  There 
is  something  deeper,  more  secret,  which  furnishes  the  real  mo- 
tive and  character  of  our  lives.  What  a  triumph,  then,  is  every 
fine  old  man!  To  have  come  out  of  a  long  Hfe  with  a  spirit  still 
sunny,  is  not  that  an  heroic  accomplishment? 

Of  the  real  life  of  our  friend  I  know  only  one  thing;  but  that 
thing  is  precious  to  me,  for  it  gives  me  a  glimpse  of  the  far  dim 
Alps  that  rise  out  of  the  Plains  of  Contentment.  It  is  nothing 
very  definite — such  things  never  are;  and  yet  I  like  to  think  of 
it  when  I  see  her  treading  the  useful  round  of  her  simple  life. 
As  I  said,  she  has  lived  here  in  this  neighbourhood — oh,  sixty 
years.  The  country  knew  her  father  before  her.  Out  of  that 
past,  through  the  dimming  eyes  of  some  of  the  old  inhabitants, 
I  have  had  glimpses  of  the  sprightly  girlhood  which  our  friend 
must  have  enjoyed.  There  is  even  a  confused  story  of  a  wooer 
(how  people  try  to  account  for  every  old  maid!)— a  long  time 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  213 

ago— who  came  and  went  away  again.  No  one  remembers  much 
about  him — such  things  are  not  important,  of  course,  after  so 
many  years 

But  I  must  get  to  the  thing  I  treasure.  One  day  Harriet  called 
at  the  little  house.  It  was  in  summer  and  the  door  stood  open; 
she  presumed  on  the  privilege  of  friendship  and  walked  straight 
in.  There  she  saw,  sitting  at  the  table,  her  head  on  her  arm  in  a 
curious  girlish  abandon  unlike  the  prim  Miss  Aiken  we  knew 
so  well,  our  Old  Maid.  When  she  heard  Harriet's  step  she 
started  up  with  breath  quickly  indrawn.  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  Something  in  her  hand  she  concealed  in  the  folds  of  her 
skirt  then  impulsively — unUke  her,  too— she  threw  an  arm 
around  Harriet  and  buried  her  face  on  Harriet's  shoulder.  In  re- 
sponse to  Harriet's  question  she  said: 

"Oh,  an  old,  old  trouble.  No  new  trouble." 

That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  All  the  new  troubles  were  the 
troubles  of  other  people.  You  may  say  this  isn't  much  of  a  clue; 
well  it  isn't,  and  yet  I  like  to  have  it  in  mind.  It  gives  me  some- 
how the  other  woman  who  is  not  expected  or  predictable  or 
commonplace.  I  seem  to  understand  our  Old  Maid  the  better; 
and  when  I  think  of  her  bustling,  inquisitive,  helpful,  gentle 
ways  and  the  shine  of  her  white  soul,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  do  without  her  in  this  community. 


VIII 
A  ROADSIDE  PROPHET 


17  ROM  MY  UPPER  FIELD,  when  I  look  across  the  countryside,  I  can 
see  in  the  distance  a  short  stretch  of  the  gray  town  road.  It 
winds  out  of  a  Httle  wood,  crosses  a  knoll,  and  loses  itself  again 
beyond  the  trees  of  an  old  orchard.  I  love  that  spot  in  my  upper 
field,  and  the  view  of  the  road  beyond.  When  I  am  at  work 
there  I  have  only  to  look  up  to  see  the  world  go  by — part  of  it 
going  down  to  the  town,  and  part  of  it  coming  up  again.  And  I 
never  see  a  traveller  on  the  hill,  especially  if  he  be  afoot,  with- 
out feeling  that  if  I  met  him  I  should  Uke  him,  and  that  whatever 
he  had  to  say  I  should  like  to  hear. 

At  first  I  could  not  make  out  what  the  man  was  doing.  Most 
of  the  travellers  I  see  from  my  field  are  like  the  people  I  com- 
monly meet — so  intent  upon  their  destination  that  they  take 
no  joy  of  the  road  they  travel.  They  do  not  even  see  me  here  in 
the  fields;  and  if  they  did,  they  would  probably  think  me  a  slow 
and  unprofitable  person.  I  have  nothing  that  they  can  carry 
away  and  store  up  in  barns,  or  reduce  to  percentages,  or  calcu- 
late as  profit  and  loss;  they  do  not  perceive  what  a  wonderful 

214 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  215 

place  this  is;  they  do  not  know  that  here,  too,  we  gather  a 
crop  of  contentment. 

But  apparently  this  man  was  the  pattern  of  a  loiterer.  I  saw 
him  stop  on  the  knoll  and  look  widely  about  him.  Then  he 
stooped  down  as  though  searching  for  something,  then  moved 
slowly  forward  for  a  few  steps.  Just  at  that  point  in  the  road 
lies  a  great  smooth  boulder  which  road-makers  long  since  dead 
had  rolled  out  upon  the  wayside.  Here  to  my  astonishment  I  saw 
him  kneel  upon  the  ground.  He  had  something  in  one  hand 
with  which  he  seemed  intently  occupied.  After  a  time  he  stood 
up,  and  retreating  a  few  steps  down  the  road,  he  scanned  the 
boulder  narrowly. 
"This,"  I  said  to  myself,  "may  be  something  for  me." 
So  I  crossed  the  fence  and  walked  down  the  neighbouring 
field.  It  was  an  Indian  summer  day  with  hazy  hillsides,  and 
still  sunshine,  and  slumbering  brown  fields — the  sort  of  a  day  I 
love.  I  leaped  the  little  brook  in  the  valley  and  strode  hastily  up 
the  opposite  slope.  I  cannot  describe  what  a  sense  I  had  of  new 
worlds  to  be  found  here  in  old  fields.  So  I  came  to  the  fence  on 
the  other  side  and  looked  over.  My  man  was  kneeUng  again  at 
the  rock.  I  was  scarcely  twenty  paces  from  him,  but  so  earnestly 
was  he  engaged  that  he  never  once  saw  me.  I  had  a  good  look  at 
him.  He  was  a  small,  thin  man  with  straight  gray  hair;  above  his 
collar  I  could  see  the  weather-brown  wrinkles  of  his  neck.  His 
coat  was  of  black,  of  a  noticeably  neat  appearance,  and  I  ob- 
served, as  a  further  evidence  of  fastidiousness  rare  upon  the 
Road,  that  he  was  saving  his  trousers  by  kneeling  on  a  bit  of 
carpet.  What  he  could  be  doing  there  so  intently  by  the  road- 
side I  could  not  imagine.  So  I  climbed  the  fence,  making  some 
little  intentional  noise  as  I  did  so.  He  arose  immediately.  Then 
I  saw  at  his  side  on  the  ground  two  small  tin  cans,  and  in  his 
hands  a  pair  of  paint  brushes.  As  he  stepped  aside  I  saw  the 
words  he  had  been  painting  on  the  boulder: 

GOD  IS  LOVE 

A  meek  figure,  indeed,  he  looked,  and  when  he  saw  me  ad- 
vancing he  said,  with  a  deference  that  was  almost  timidity : 


216 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


"Good  morning,  sir." 

"Good  morning,  brother,"  I  returned  heartily. 

His  face  brightened  perceptibly. 

"Don't  stop  on  my  account,"  I  said;  "finish  ofl  your  work." 

He  knelt  again  on  his  bit  of  carpet  and  proceeded  busily  with 
his  brushes.  I  stood  and  watched  him.  The  lettering  was  some^ 
what  crude,  but  he  had  the  swift  deftness  of  long  practice. 

"How  long,"  I  inquired,  "have  you  been  at  this  sort  of  work.?" 

"Ten  years,"  he  replied,  looking  up  at  me  with  a  pale  smile. 


**OfI  and  on  for  ten  years.  Winters  I  work  at  my  trade — I  am 
a  journeyman  painter — ^but  when  spring  comes,  and  again  in  the 
fall,  I  follow  the  road." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  said,  dropping  his  voice,  in 
words  of  the  utmost  seriousness: 

"I  live  by  the  Word." 

"By  the  Word?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  by  the  Word,"  and  putting  down  his  brushes  he  took 
from  an  inner  pocket  a  small  package  of  papers,  one  of  which 
he  handed  to  me.  It  bore  at  the  top  this  sentence  in  large  type: 

"Is  not  my  word  Hke  fire,  saith  the  Lord:  and  like  a  hammer 
that  breaketh  the  rock  in  pieces?" 

I  stood  and  looked  at  him  a  moment.  I  suppose  no  one  man 
is  stranger  than  any  other,  but  at  that  moment  it  seemed  to  me  I 
had  never  met  a  more  curious  person.  And  I  was  consumed  with 
a  desire  to  know  why  he  was  what  he  was. 

"Do  you  always  paint  the  same  sign?"  I  asked. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  217 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "I  have  a  feeUng  about  what  I  should 
paint.  When  I  came  up  the  road  here  this  morning  I  stopped  a 
minute,  and  it  all  seemed  so  calm  and  nice" — he  swept  his  arm 
in  the  direction  o£  the  fields — "that  I  says  to  myself,  'I  will  paint 
"God  is  Love." ' " 

"An  appropriate  text,"  I  said,  "for  this  very  spot." 

He  seemed  much  gratified. 

"Oh,  you  can  follow  your  feelings!"  he  exclaimed.  "Sometimes 
near  towns  I  can't  paint  anything  but  'Hell  yawns,'  and  'Prepare 
to  meet  thy  God.'  I  don't  like  'em  as  well  as  'God  is  Love,'  but 
it  seems  Uke  I  had  to  paint  'em.  Now,  when  I  was  in  Ari- 
zona  " 

He  paused  a  moment,  wiping  his  brushes. 

"When  Lwas  in  Arizona,"  he  was  saying,  "mosdy  I  painted 
'Repent  ye.'  It  seemed  like  I  couldn't  paint  anything  else,  and 
in  some  places  I  felt  moved  to  put  'Repent  ye'  twice  on  the 
same  rock." 

I  began  to  ask  him  questions  about  Arizona,  but  I  soon  found 
how  Httle  he,  too,  had  taken  toll  of  the  road  he  travelled:  for 
he  seemed  to  have  brought  back  memories  only  of  the  texts 
he  painted  and  the  fact  that  in  some  places  good  stones  were 
scarce,  and  that  he  had  to  carry  extra  turpentine  to  thin  his 
paint,  the  weather  being  dry.  I  don't  know  that  he  is  a  lone  repre- 
sentative of  this  trait.  I  have  known  farmers  who,  in  travelling, 
saw  only  plows  and  butter-tubs  and  corn-cribs,  and  preachers 
who,  looking  across  such  autumn  fields  as  these  would  carry 
away  only  a  musty  text  or  two.  I  pity  some  of  those  who  expect 
to  go  to  heaven:  they  will  find  so  little  to  surprise  them  in  the 
golden  streets. 

But  I  persevered  with  my  painter,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
we  were  talking  with  the  greatest  friendliness.  Having  now 
finished  his  work,  he  shook  out  his  bit  of  carpet,  screwed  the 
tops  on  his  paint  cans,  wrapped  up  his  brushes,  and  disposed 
of  them  all  with  the  deftness  of  long  experience  in  his  small  black 
bag.  Then  he  stood  up  and  looked  critically  at  his  work. 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said ;  "a  great  many  people  coming  this  way 
in  the  next  hundred  years  will  see  it." 


218  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"That's  what  I  want,"  he  said  eagerly;  "that's  what  I  want. 
Most  people  never  hear  the  Word  at  all." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued: 

"It's  a  curious  thing,  Mister — ^perhaps  you've  noticed  it  your- 
self—that the  best  things  of  all  in  the  world  people  won't  have  as 
a  gift." 

"I've  noticed  it,"  I  said. 

"It's  strange,  isn't  it?"  he  again  remarked. 

"Very  strange,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  know's  I  can  blame  them,"  he  continued.  "I  was 
that  way  myself  for  a  good  many  years:  all  around  me  gold 
and  diamonds  and  precious  jewels,  and  me  never  once  seeing 
them.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  stoop  and  take  them — ^but  I  didn't 
do  it." 

I  saw  that  I  had  met  a  philosopher,  and  I  decided  that  I 
would  stop  and  wrestle  with  him  and  not  let  him  go  without 
his  story — something  like  Jacob,  wasn't  it,  with  the  angel? 

"Do  you  do  all  this  without  payment?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  an  injured  way. 

"Who'd  pay  me?"  he  asked.  "Mostly  people  think  me  a  sort 
of  fool.  Oh,  I  know,  but  I  don  t  mind.  I  live  by  the  Word.  No, 
nobody  pays  me :  I  am  paying  myself." 

By  this  time  he  was  ready  to  start.  So  I  said,  "Friend,  I'm 
going  your  way,  and  I'll  walk  with  you." 

So  we  set  off  together  down  the  hill. 

"You  see,  sir,"  he  said,  "when  a  man  has  got  the  best  thing  in 
the  world,  and  finds  it's  free,  he  naturally  wants  to  let  other 
people  know  about  it." 

He  walked  with  the  unmistakable  step  of  those  who  knew  the 
long  road — an  easy,  swinging,  steady  step — carrying  his  small 
black  bag.  So  I  gradually  drew  him  out,  and  when  I  had  his 
whole  story  it  was  as  simple  and  common,  but  as  wonderful,  as 
daylight:  as  fundamental  as  a  tree  or  a  rock. 

"You  see.  Mister,"  he  said,  "I  was  a  wild  sort  when  I  was 
young.  The  drink,  and  worse.  I  hear  folks  say  sometimes  that  if 
they'd  known  what  was  right  they'd  have  done  it.  But  I  think 
that  conscience  never  stops  ringing  little  bells  in  the  back  of. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


219 


a  man's  head;  and  that  if  he  doesn't  do  what  is  right,  it's  because 
he  wants  to  do  what  is  wrong.  He  thinks  it's  more  amusing  and 
interesting.  I  went  through  all  that,  Mister,  and  plenty  more 
besides.  I  got  pretty  nearly  as  low  as  a  man  ever  gets.  Oh,  I 
was  down  and  out:  no  home,  no  family,  not  a  friend  that 
wanted  to  see  me.  If  you  never  got  down  that  low.  Mister,  you 
don't  know  what  it  is.  You  are  just  as  much  dead  as  if  you  were 
in  your  grave.  I'm  telling  you. 

"I  thought  there  was  no  help  for  me,  and  I  don't  know's  I 
wanted  to  be  helped.  I  said  to  myself,  Tou're  just  naturally  born 


weak  and  it  isn't  your  fault.'  It  makes  a  lot  of  men  easier  in  their 
minds  to  lay  up  their  troubles  to  the  way  they  are  born.  I  made 
all  sorts  of  excuses  for  myself,  but  all  the  time  I  knew  I  was 
wrong;  a  man  can't  fool  himself. 

"So  it  went  along  for  years.  I  got  married  and  we  had  a  little 
girl." 

He  paused  for  a  long  moment. 

"I  thought  that  was  going  to  help  me.  I  thought  the  world 
and  all  of  that  little  girl "  He  paused  again. 

"Well,  she  died.  Then  I  broke  my  wife's  heart  and  went  on 
down  to  hell.  When  a  man  lets  go  that  way  he  kills  everything 
he  loves  and  everything  that  loves  him.  He's  on  the  road  to 
loneUness  and  despair,  that  man.  I'm  teUing  you. 

"One  day,  ten  years  ago  this  fall,  I  was  going  along  the  main 


220  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

street  in  Quinceyville.  I  was  near  the  end  of  my  rope.  Not  even 
money  enough  to  buy  drink  with,  and  yet  I  was  then  more'n 
half  drunk.  I  happened  to  look  up  on  the  end  of  that  stone  wall 
near  the  bridge— were  you  ever  there,  Mister? — and  I  saw  the 
words  'God  is  Love'  painted  there.  It  somehow  hit  me  hard. 
I  couldn't  anyways  get  it  out  of  my  mind.  'God  is  Love.'  Well, 
says  I  to  myself,  if  God  is  Love,  he's  the  only  one  that  is  Love 
for  a  chap  like  me.  And  there's  no  one  else  big  enough  to  save 
me — I  says.  So  I  stopped  right  there  in  the  street,  and  you  may 
believe  it  or  explain  it  anyhow  you  like,  Mister,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  a  kind  of  light  came  all  around  me,  and  I  said,  solemn- 
Uke,  1  will  try  God.'" 

He  stopped  a  moment.  We  were  walking  down  the  hill:  all 
about  us  on  either  side  spread  the  quiet  fields.  In  the  high  air 
above  a  few  lacy  clouds  were  drifting  eastward.  Upon  this  story 
of  tragic  human  life  crept  in  pleasantly  the  calm  of  the  country- 
side. 

"And  I  did  try  Him,"  my  companion  was  saying,  "and  I 
found  that  the  words  on  the  wall  were  true.  They  were  true 
back  there  and  they've  been  true  ever  since.  When  I  began  to  be 
decent  again  and  got  back  my  health  and  my  job,  I  figured  that 
I  owed  a  lot  to  God.  I  wa'n't  no  orator,  and  no  writer  and  I  had 
no  money  to  give,  'but,'  says  I  to  myself,  'I'm  a  painter.  I'll 
help  God  with  paint.'  So  here  I  am  a-traveUing  up  and  down 
the  roads  and  mostly  painting  'God  is  Love,'  but  sometimes  'Re- 
pent ye'  and  'Hell  yawns.'  I  don't  know  much  about  religion — 
but  I  do  know  that  His  Word  is  like  a  fire,  and  that  a  man  can 
live  by  it,  and  if  once  a  man  has  it  he  has  everything  else  he 
wants." 

He  paused:  I  looked  around  at  him  again.  His  face  was  set 
steadily  ahead— a  plain  face  showing  the  marks  of  his  hard  earUer 
life,  and  yet  marked  with  a  sort  of  high  beauty. 

"The  trouble  with  people  who  are  unhappy.  Mister,"  he  said, 
"is  that  they  won't  try  God." 

I  could  not  answer  my  companion.  There  seemed,  indeed, 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  All  my  own  speculative  incomings  and 
outgoings— how  futile  they  seemed  compared  with  thisl 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  221 

Near  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  is  a  little  bridge.  It  is  a  pleasant, 
quiet  spot.  My  companion  stopped  and  put  down  his  bag. 

"What  do  you  think,"  said  he,  "I  should  paint  here?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you  know  better  than  I  do.  What  would  you 
paint?" 

He  looked  around  at  me  and  then  smiled  as  though  he  had  a 
quiet  little  joke  with  himself. 

"When  in  doubt,"  he  said,  "I  always  paint  'God  is  Love.'  I'm 
sure  of  that.  Of  course  'Hell  yawns'  and  'Repent  ye'  have  to  be 
painted — near  towns — but  I  much  rather  paint  'God  is  Love.' " 

I  left  him  kneeling  there  on  the  bridge,  the  bit  of  carpet  under 
his  knees,  his  two  little  cans  at  his  side.  Half  way  up  the  hill  I 
turned  to  look  back.  He  lifted  his  hand  with  the  paint  brush  in 
it,  and  I  waved  mine  in  return.  I  have  never  seen  him  since, 
though  it  will  be  a  long,  long  time  before  the  sign  of  him  dis- 
appears from  our  roadsides. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  near  the  painted  boulder,  I  cUmbed 
the  fence,  pausing  a  moment  on  the  top  rail  to  look  off  across 
the  hazy  countryside,  warm  with  the  still  sweetness  of  autumn. 
In  the  distance,  above  the  crown  of  a  little  hill,  I  could  see  the 
roof  of  my  own  home — and  the  barn  near  it — and  the  cows 
feeding  quietly  in  the  pastures. 


IX 

THE  GUNSMITH 

XTarriet  and  I  had  the  first  intimation  of  what  we  have  since 
called  the  "gunsmith  problem"  about  ten  days  ago.  It  came  to 
us,  as  was  to  be  expected,  from  that  accompHshed  spreader  of 
burdens,  the  Scotch  Preacher.  When  he  came  in  to  call  on  us 
that  evening  after  supper  I  could  see  that  he  had  something  im- 
portant on  his  mind ;  but  I  let  him  get  to  it  in  his  own  way. 

"David,"  he  said  finally,  "Carlstrom,  the  gunsmith,  is  going 
home  to  Sweden." 

"At  last!"  I  exclaimed. 

Dr.  McAlway  paused  a  moment  and  then  said  hesitatingly: 

"He  says  he  is  going." 

Harriet  laughed.  "Then  it's  all  decided,"  she  said;  "he  isn't 
going." 

"No,"  said  the  Scotch  Preacher,  "it's  not  decided— yet." 

"Dr.  McAlway  hasn't  made  up  his  mind,"  I  said,  "whether 
Carlstrom  is  to  go  or  not." 

222 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  223 

But  the  Scotch  Preacher  was  in  no  mood  for  joking. 

"David,"  he  said,  "did  you  ever  know  anything  about  the 
homesickness  of  the  foreigner?" 

He  paused  a  moment  and  then  continued,  nodding  his  great 
shaggy  head: 

"Man,  man,  how  my  old  mither  greeted  for  Scotland!  I  mind 
how  a  sprig  of  heather  would  bring  the  tears  to  her  eyes;  and 
for  twenty  years  I  dared  not  whistle  'Bonnie  Doon'  or  'Charlie 
Is  My  Darhng'  lest  it  break  her  heart.  'Tis  a  pain  you've  not  had, 
I'm  thinking,  Davy." 

"We  all  know  the  longing  for  old  places  and  old  times,"  I  said. 

"No,  no,  David,  it's  more  than  that.  It's  the  wanting  and  the 
longing  to  see  the  hills  of  your  own  land,  and  the  town  where 
you  were  born,  and  the  street  where  you  played,  and  the 
house " 

He  paused,  "Ah,  well,  it's  hard  for  those  who  have  it." 

"But  I  haven't  heard  Carlstrom  refer  to  Sweden  for  years," 
I  said.  "Is  it  homesickness,  or  just  old  age?" 

"There  ye  have  it,  Davy;  the  nail  right  on  the  head!"  ex- 
claimed the  Scotch  Preacher.  "Is  it  homesickness,  or  is  he  just 
old  and  tired?" 

With  that  we  fell  to  talking  about  Carlstrom,  the  gunsmith. 
I  have  known  him  pretty  nearly  ever  since  I  came  here,  now 
more  than  ten  years  ago — and  liked  him  well,  too — but  it  seemed, 
as  Dr.  McAlway  talked  that  evening,  as  though  we  were  mak- 
ing the  acquaintance  of  quite  a  new  and  wonderful  person. 
How  dull  we  all  are!  How  we  need  such  an  artist  as  the  Scotch 
Preacher  to  mould  heroes  out  of  the  common  human  clay 
around  us!  It  takes  a  sort  of  greatness  to  recognize  greatness. 

In  an  hour's  time  the  Scotch  Preacher  had  both  Harriet  and 
me  much  excited,  and  the  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  was  that 
I  promised  to  call  on  Carlstrom  the  next  day  when  I  went  to 
town. 

I  scarcely  needed  the  prompting  of  the  Scotch  Preacher,  for 
Carlstrom's  gunshop  has  for  years  been  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting places  in  town  for  me.  I  went  to  it  now  with  a  new  un- 
derstanding. 


224 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


Afar  off  I  began  to  listen  for  Carlstrom's  hammer,  and  pres- 
ently I  heard  the  famiUar  sounds.  There  were  two  or  three  mel- 
low strokes,  and  I  knew  that  Carlstrom  was  making  the  sparks 
fly  from  the  red  iron.  Then  the  hammer  rang,  and  I  knew  he 
was  striking  down  on  the  cold  steel  of  the  anvil.  It  is  a  pleasant 
sound  to  hear. 

Carlstrom's  shop  is  just  around  the  corner  from  the  main 
street.  You  may  know  it  by  a  great  weather-beaten  wooden  gun 


fastened  over  the  doorway,  pointing  in  the  daytime  at  the  sky, 
and  in  the  night  at  the  stars.  A  stranger  passing  that  way  might 
wonder  at  the  great  gun  and  possibly  say  to  himself: 

"A  gunshop!  How  can  a  man  make  a  living  mending  guns  in 
such  a  peaceful  community!" 

Such  a  remark  merely  shows  that  he  doesn't  know  Carlstrom, 
iior  the  shop,  nor  us. 

I  tied  my  horse  at  the  corner  and  went  down  to  the  shop  with 
a  peculiar  new  interest.  I  saw  as  if  for  the  first  time  the  old 
wheels  which  have  stood  weathering  so  long  at  one  end  of  the 
building.  I  saw  under  the  shed  at  the  other  end  the  wonderful 
assortment  of  old  iron  pipes,  kettles,  tires,  a  pump  or  two,  many 
parts  of  farm  machinery,  a  broken  water  wheel,  and  I  don't 
know  what  other  flotsam  of  thirty  years  of  diligent  mending  of 
the  iron  works  of  an  entire  community.  All  this,  you  may  say — 
the  disorder  of  old  iron,  the  cinders  which  cover  part  of  the 
yard  but  do  not  keep  out  the  tangle  of  goldenrod  and  catnip  and 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  225 

boneset  which  at  this  time  of  the  year  grows  thick  along  the 
neighbouring  fences — all  this,  you  say,  makes  no  inviting  pic- 
ture. You  are  wrong.  Where  honest  work  is,  there  is  always  that 
which  invites  the  eye. 

I  know  of  few  things  more  inviting  than  to  step  up  to  the 
wide-open  doors  and  look  into  the  shop.  The  floor,  half  of  hard 
worn  boards,  half  of  cinders,  the  smoky  rafters  of  the  roof,  the 
confusion  of  implements  on  the  benches,  the  guns  in  the  cor- 
ners— how  all  of  these  things  form  the  subdued  background  for 
the  flaming  forge  and  the  square  chimney  above  it. 

At  one  side  of  the  forge  you  will  see  the  great  dusty  bellows 
and  you  will  hear  its  stertorous  breathing.  In  front  stands  the 
old  brown  anvil  set  upon  a  gnarly  maple  block.  A  long  sweep 
made  of  peeled  hickory  wood  controls  the  bellows,  and  as  you 
look  in  upon  this  lively  and  pleasant  scene  you  will  see  that 
the  grimy  hand  of  Carlstrom  himself  is  upon  the  hickory  sweep. 
As  he  draws  it  down  and  lets  it  up  again  with  the  peculiar 
rhythmic  swing  of  long  experience— heaping  up  his  fire  with 
a  little  iron  paddle  held  in  the  other  hand — ^he  hums  to  himself 
in  a  high  curious  old  voice,  no  words  at  all,  just  a  tune  of  con- 
tented employment  in  consonance  with  the  breathing  of  the 
bellows  and  the  mounting  flames  of  the  forge. 

As  I  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  the  other  day  before 
Carlstrom  saw  me,  I  wished  I  could  picture  my  friend  as  the 
typical  blacksmith  with  the  brawny  arms,  the  big  chest,  the  deep 
voice  and  all  that.  But  as  I  looked  at  him  newly,  the  Scotch 
Preacher's  words  still  in  my  ears,  he  seemed,  with  his  stooping 
shoulders,  his  gray  beard  not  very  well  kept,  and  his  thin  gray 
hair,  more  than  ordinarily  small  and  old. 

I  remember  as  distinctly  as  though  it  were  yesterday  the  first 
time  Carlstrom  really  impressed  himself  upon  me.  It  was  in  my 
early  blind  days  at  the  farm.  I  had  gone  to  him  with  a  part  of  a 
horse-rake  which  I  had  broken  on  one  of  my  stony  hills. 

"Can  you  mend  it?"  I  asked. 

If  I  had  known  him  better  I  should  never  have  asked  such  a 
question.  I  saw,  indeed,  at  the  time  that  I  had  not  said  the  right 
thing;  but  how  could  I  know  then  that  Carlstrom  never  let  any 


226  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

broken  thing  escape  him?  A  watch,  or  a  gun,  or  a  locomotive— 
they  are  all  alike  to  him,  if  they  are  broken.  I  believe  he  would 
agree  to  patch  the  wrecked  chariot  of  Phaethon! 

A  week  later  I  came  back  to  the  shop. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said  when  he  saw  me. 

He  turned  from  his  forge,  set  his  hands  on  his  hips  and  looked 
at  me  a  moment  with  feigned  seriousness. 

"So!"  he  said.  "You  have  come  for  your  job?" 

He  softened  the  "j"  in  job;  his  whole  speech,  indeed,  had  the 
engaging  inflection  of  the  Scandinavian  tongue  overlaid  upon 
the  English  words. 

"So,"  he  said,  and  went  to  his  bench  with  a  quick  step  and  an 
air  of  almost  childish  eagerness.  He  handed  me  the  parts  of 
my  hay-rake  without  a  word.  I  looked  them  over  carefully. 

"I  can't  see  where  you  mended  them,"  I  said. 

You  should  have  seen  his  face  brighten  with  pleasure!  He  al- 
lowed me  to  admire  the  work  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then 
he  had  it  out  of  my  hand,  as  if  I  couldn't  be  trusted  with  any- 
thing so  important,  and  he  explained  how  he  had  done  it.  A 
special  tool  for  his  lathe  had  been  found  necessary  in  order 
to  do  my  work  properly.  This  he  had  made  at  his  forge,  and  I 
suppose  it  had  taken  him  twice  as  long  to  make  the  special  tool 
as  it  had  to  mend  the  parts  of  my  rake;  but  when  I  would 
have  paid  him  for  it  he  would  take  nothing  save  for  the  mending 
itself.  Nor  was  this  a  mere  rebuke  to  a  doubter.  It  had  delighted 
him  to  do  a  difficult  thing,  to  show  the  really  great  skill  he  had. 
Indeed,  I  think  our  friendship  began  right  there  and  was  based 
upon  the  favour  I  did  in  bringing  him  a  job  that  I  thought  he 
couldn't  do! 

When  he  saw  me  the  other  day  in  the  door  of  his  shop  he 
seemed  greatly  pleased. 

"Come  in,  come  in,"  he  said. 

"What  is  this  I  hear,"  I  said,  "about  your  going  back  to 
Sweden?" 

"For  forty  years,"  he  said,  "I've  been  homesick  for  Sweden. 
Now  I'm  an  old  man  and  I'm  going  home." 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  227 

"But,  Carlstrom,"  I  said,  "we  can't  get  along  without  you. 
Who's  going  to  keep  us  mended  up?" 

"You  have  Charles  Baxter,"  he  said,  smiling. 

For  years  there  had  been  a  quiet  sort  of  rivalry  between 
Carlstrom  and  Baxter,  though  Baxter  is  in  the  country  and  works 
chiefly  in  wood. 

"But  Baxter  can't  mend  a  gun  or  a  hay-rake,  or  a  pump,  to 
save  his  hfe,"  I  said.  "You  know  that." 

The  old  man  seemed  greatly  pleased :  he  had  the  simple  vanity 
which  is  the  right  of  the  true  workman.  But  for  answer  he 
merely  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  been  here  forty  years,"  he  said,  "and  all  the  time  I 
have  been  homesick  for  Sweden." 

I  found  that  several  men  of  the  town  had  been  in  to  see  Carl- 
strom and  talked  with  him  of  his  plans,  and  even  while  I  was 
there  two  other  friends  came  in.  The  old  man  was  delighted 
with  the  interest  shown.  After  I  left  him  I  went  down  the  street. 
It  seemed  as  though  everybody  had  heard  of  Carlstrom's  plans, 
and  here  and  there  I  felt  that  the  secret  hand  of  the  Scotch 
Preacher  had  been  at  work.  At  the  store  where  I  usually  trade 
the  merchant  talked  about  it,  and  the  postmaster  when  I  went 
in  for  my  mail,  and  the  clerk  at  the  drug  store,  and  the  harness- 
maker.  I  had  known  a  good  deal  about  Carlstrom  in  the  past, 
for  one  learns  much  of  his  neighbours  in  ten  years,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  day  as  though  his  history  stood  out  as  something 
separate  and  new  and  impressive. 

When  he  first  came  here  forty  years  ago  I  suppose  Carlstrom 
was  not  unlike  most  of  the  foreigners  who  immigrate  to  our 
shores,  fired  with  faith  in  a  free  country.  He  was  poor — as  poor 
as  a  man  could  possibly  be.  For  several  years  he  worked  on  a 
farm — hard  work,  for  which,  owing  to  his  frail  physique,  he  was 
not  well  fitted.  But  he  saved  money  constantly,  and  after  a  time 
he  was  able  to  come  to  town  and  open  a  Uttle  shop.  He  made 
nearly  all  of  his  tools  with  his  own  hands,  he  built  his  own 
chimney  and  forge,  he  even  whittled  out  the  wooden  gun  which 
stands  for  a  sign  over  the  door  of  his  shop.  He  had  learned  his 
trade  in  the  careful  old-country  way.  Not  only  could  he  mend  a 


228  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

gun,  but  he  could  make  one  outright,  even  to  the  barrel  and 
the  wooden  stock.  In  all  the  years  I  have  known  him  he  has  al- 
ways had  on  hand  some  such  work — once  I  remember,  a  pistol 
— which  he  was  turning  out  at  odd  times  for  the  very  satisfac- 
tion it  gave  him.  He  could  not  sell  one  of  his  hand-made  guns 
for  half  as  much  as  it  cost  him,  nor  does  he  seem  to  want  to 
sell  them,  preferring  rather  to  have  them  stand  in  the  corner  of 
his  shop  where  he  can  look  at  them.  His  is  the  incorruptible 
spirit  of  the  artist! 

What  a  tremendous  power  there  is  in  work.  Carlstrom 
worked.  He  was  up  early  in  the  morning  to  work,  and  he  worked 
in  the  evening  as  long  as  daylight  lasted,  and  once  I  found  him  in 
his  shop  in  the  evening,  bending  low  over  his  bench  with  a  kero- 
sene lamp  in  front  of  him.  He  was  humming  his  inevitable  tune 
and  smoothing  off  with  a  fine  file  the  nice  curves  of  a  rifle  trig- 
ger. When  he  had  trouble— and  what  a  lot  of  it  he  has  had  in 
his  time! — ^he  worked;  and  when  he  was  happy  he  worked  all 
the  harder.  All  the  leisurely  ones  of  the  town  drifted  by,  all 
the  children  and  the  fools,  and  often  rested  in  the  doorway  of  his 
shop.  He  made  them  all  welcome:  he  talked  with  them,  but 
he  never  stopped  working.  Clang,  clang,  would  go  his  anvil, 
whish,  whish,  would  respond  his  bellows,  creak,  creak,  would 
go  the  hickory  sweep — he  was  helping  the  world  go  round! 

All  this  time,  though  he  had  sickness  in  his  family,  though  his 
wife  died,  and  then  his  children  one  after  another  until  only 
one  now  remains,  he  worked  and  he  saved.  He  bought  a  lot  and 
built  a  house  to  rent;  then  he  built  another  house;  then  he  bought 
the  land  where  his  shop  stands  and  rebuilt  the  shop  itself.  It  was 
an  epic  of  homely  work.  He  took  part  in  the  work  of  the  church 
and  on  election  days  he  changed  his  coat,  and  went  to  the  town 
hall  to  vote. 

In  the  years  since  I  have  known  the  old  gunsmith  and  some- 
thing of  the  town  where  he  works,  I  have  seen  young  men,  born 
Americans,  with  every  opportunity  and  encouragement  of  a 
free  country,  growing  up  there  and  going  to  waste.  One  day  I 
heard  one  of  them,  sitting  in  front  of  a  store,  grumbling  about 
the  foreigners  who  were  coming  in  and  taking  up  the  land.  The 


229 


230  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

young  man  thought  it  should  be  prevented  by  law.  I  said  noth- 
ing; but  I  hstened  and  heard  from  the  distance  the  steady  clang, 
clang,  of  Carlstrom's  hammer  upon  the  anvil. 

Ketchell,  the  store-keeper,  told  me  how  Carlstrom  had  longed 
and  planned  and  saved  to  be  able  to  go  back  once  more  to  the 
old  home  he  had  left.  Again  and  again  he  had  got  almost  enough 
money  ahead  to  start,  and  then  there  would  be  an  interest  pay- 
ment due,  or  a  death  in  the  family,  and  the  money  would  all  go 
to  the  banker,  the  doctor,  or  the  undertaker. 

"Of  recent  years,"  said  Ketchell,  "we  thought  he'd  given  up 
the  idea.  His  friends  are  all  here  now,  and  if  he  went  back,  he 
certainly  would  be  disappointed." 

A  sort  of  serenity  seemed,  indeed,  to  come  upon  him:  his 
family  lie  on  the  quiet  hill,  old  things  and  old  times  have  grown 
distant,  and  upon  that  anvil  of  his  before  the  glowing  forge  he 
has  beaten  out  for  himself  a  real  place  in  this  community.  He 
has  beaten  out  the  respect  of  a  whole  town;  and  from  the  crude 
human  nature  with  which  he  started  he  has  fashioned  himself 
wisdom,  and  peace  of  mind,  and  the  ripe  humour  which  sees 
that  God  is  in  his  world.  There  are  men  I  know  who  read 
many  books,  hoping  to  learn  how  to  be  happy;  let  me  com- 
mend them  to  Carlstrom,  the  gunsmith. 

I  have  often  reflected  upon  the  incalculable  influence  of  one 
man  upon  a  community.  The  town  is  better  for  having  stood 
often  looking  into  the  fire  of  Carlstrom's  forge,  and  seeing  his 
hammer  strike.  I  don't  know  how  many  times  I  have  heard  men 
repeat  observations  gathered  in  Carlstrom's  shop.  Only  the 
other  day  I  heard  the  village  school  teacher  say,  when  I  asked 
him  why  he  always  seemed  so  merry  and  had  so  little  fault  to 
find  with  the  world. 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "as  Carlstrom,  the  gunsmith  says,  'when 
I  feel  Hke  finding  fault  I  always  begin  with  myself  and  then  I 
never  get  any  farther.' " 

Another  of  Carlstrom's  sayings  is  current  in  the  country. 

"It's  a  good  thing,"  he  says,  "when  a  man  knows  what  he  pre- 
tends to  know." 

The  more  I  circulated  among  my  friends,  the  more  I  heard  of 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


231 


Carlstrom.  It  is  odd  that  I  should  have  gone  all  these  years 
knowing  Carlstrom,  and  yet  never  consciously  until  last  v^eek 
setting  him  in  his  rightful  place  among  the  men  I  know.  It  makes 
me  wonder  what  other  great  souls  about  me  are  thus  concealing 
themselves  in  the  guise  o£  familiarity.  This  stooped  gray  neigh- 
bour of  mine  whom  I  have  seen  so  often  working  in  his  field 
that  he  has  almost  become  a  part  of  the  landscape — who  can 
tell  what  heroisms  may  be  locked  away  from  my  vision  under 
his  old  brown  hat  ? 


On  Wednesday  night  Carlstrom  was  at  Dr.  McAlway's  house 
— with  Charles  Baxter,  my  neighbour  Horace,  and  several  others. 
And  I  had  still  another  view  of  him. 

I  think  there  is  always  something  that  surprises  one  in  finding 
a  familiar  figure  in  a  wholly  new  environment.  I  was  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  Carlstrom  of  the  gunshop  that  I  coiild  not  at  once 
reconcile  myself  to  the  Carlstrom  of  Dr.  McAlway's  sitting 
room.  And,  indeed,  there  was  a  striking  change  in  his  appear- 
ance. He  came  dressed  in  the  quaint  black  coat  which  he  wears 
at  funerals.  His  hair  was  brushed  straight  back  from  his  broad, 
smooth  forehead  and  his  mild  blue  eyes  were  bright  behind  an 
especially  shiny  pair  of  steel-bowed  spectacles.  He  looked  more 
like  some  old-fashioned  college  professor  than  he  did  like  a 
smith. 

The  old  gunsmith  had  that  pride  of  humiUty  which  is  about 
the  best  pride  in  this  world.  He  was  perfectly  at  home  at  the 
Scotch  Preacher's  hearth.  Indeed,  he  radiated  a  sort  of  beaming 


232  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

good  will;  he  had  a  native  desire  to  make  everything  pleasant.  I 
did  not  realize  before  v^hat  a  fund  of  humour  the  old  man  had. 
The  Scotch  Preacher  ralUed  him  on  the  number  of  houses  he 
nov^^  owns,  and  suggested  that  he  ought  to  get  a  wife  to  keep  at 
least  one  of  them  for  him.  Carlstrom  looked  around  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"When  I  was  a  poor  man,"  he  said,  "and  carried  boxes  from 
Ketchell's  store  to  help  build  my  first  shop,  I  used  to  wish  I  had 
a  wheelbarrow.  Now  I  have  four.  When  I  had  no  house  to  keep 
my  family  in,  I  used  to  wish  that  I  had  one.  Now  I  have  four. 
I  have  thought  sometimes  I  would  like  a  wife — but  I  have  not 
dared  to  wish  for  one." 

The  old  gunsmith  laughed  noiselessly,  and  then  from  habit,  1 
suppose,  began  to  hum  as  he  does  in  his  shop — stopping  in- 
stantly, however,  when  he  reaHzed  what  he  was  doing. 

During  the  evening  the  Scotch  Preacher  got  me  to  one  side 
and  said: 

"David,  we  can't  let  the  old  man  go." 

"No,  sir,"  I  said,  "we  can't." 

"All  he  needs,  Davy,  is  cheering  up.  It's  a  cold  world  some- 
times to  the  old." 

I  suppose  the  Scotch  Preacher  was  saying  the  same  thing  to  all 
the  other  men  of  the  company. 

When  we  were  preparing  to  go.  Dr.  McAlway  turned  to 
Carlstrom  and  said: 

"How  is  it,  Carlstrom,  that  you  have  come  to  hold  such  a  place 
in  this  community?  How  is  it  that  you  have  got  ahead  so 
rapidly." 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  beaming  through  his  spectacles, 
and  said  eagerly: 

"It  ist  America;  it  ist  America." 

"No,  Carlstrom,  no— it  is  not  all  America.  It  is  Carlstrom,  too. 
You  work,  Carlstrom,  and  you  save." 

Every  day  since  Wednesday  there  has  been  a  steady  pressure 
on  Carlstrom;  not  so  much  said  in  words,  but  people  stopping 
in  at  the  shop  and  passing  a  good  word.  But  up  to  Monday 
morning  the  gunsmith  went  forward  steadily  with  his  prepara- 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  233 

tions  to  leave.  On  Sunday  I  saw  the  Scotch  Preacher  and  found 
him  perplexed  as  to  what  to  do.  I  don't  know  yet  positively,  that 
he  had  a  hand  in  it,  though  I  suspect  it,  but  on  Monday  after- 
noon Charles  Baxter  went  by  my  house  on  his  way  to  town 
with  a  broken  saw  in  his  buggy.  Such  is  the  perversity  of  rival 
artists  that  I  don't  think  Charles  Baxter  had  ever  been  to  Carl- 
strom  with  any  work.  But  this  morning  when  I  went  to  town 
and  stopped  at  Carlstrom's  shop  I  found  the  gunsmith  hum- 
ming louder  than  ever. 

"Well,  Carlstrom,  when  are  we  to  say  good-bye?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  said,  and  taking  me  by  the  sleeve  he  led 
me  over  to  his  bench  and  showed  me  a  saw  he  had  mended. 
Now,  a  broken  saw  is  one  of  the  high  tests  of  the  genius  of  the 
mender.  To  put  the  pieces  together  so  that  the  blade  will  be  per- 
fectly smooth,  so  that  the  teeth  match  accurately,  is  an  art  which 
few  workmen  of  to-day  would  even  attempt. 

"Charles  Baxter  brought  it  in,"  answered  the  old  gunsmith, 
unable  to  conceal  his  delight.  "He  thought  I  couldn't  mend  it!'* 

To  the  true  artist  there  is  nothing  to  equal  the  approbation 
of  a  rival.  It  was  Charles  Baxter,  I  am  convinced,  who  was  the 
deciding  factor.  Carlstrom  couldn't  leave  with  one  of  Baxter's 
saws  unmended!  But  back  of  it  all,  I  know,  is  the  hand  and 
the  heart  of  the  Scotch  Preacher. 

The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  I  think  that  our  gunsmith 
possesses  many  of  the  qualities  of  true  greatness.  He  has  the 
serenity,  and  the  humour,  and  the  humility  of  greatness.  He  has 
a  real  faith  in  God.  He  works,  he  accepts  what  comes.  He  thinks 
there  is  no  more  honourable  calling  than  that  of  gunsmith,  and 
that  the  town  he  lives  in  is  the  best  of  all  towns,  and  the  people 
he  knows  the  best  people. 

Yes,  it  is  greatness. 


^^'P'^rfB?^ 


<C^***^./^ 


THE  MOWING 

"Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  ma\ing  of  the  best  persons, 
It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  to  eat' and  sleep  with 
the  earth." 


J.HIS  is  a  well  earned  Sunday  morning.  My  chores  were  all 
done  long  ago,  and  I  am  sitting  down  here  after  a  late  and 
leisurely  breakfast  with  that  luxurious  feeling  of  irresponsible 
restfulness  and  comfort  which  comes  only  upon  a  clean,  still 
Sunday  morning  like  this— after  a  week  of  hard  work— a  clean 
Sunday  morning,  with  clean  clothes,  and  a  clean  chin,  and  clean 
thoughts,  and  the  June  airs  stirring  the  clean  white  curtains 
at  my  windows.  From  across  the  hills  I  can  hear  very  faintly  the 
drowsy  sounds  of  early  church  bells,  never  indeed  to  be  heard 
here  except  on  a  morning  of  surpassing  tranquillity.  And  in  the 
barnyard  back  of  the  house  Harriet's  hens  are  cackUng  trium- 
phantly: they  are  impiously  unobservant  of  the  Sabbath  day. 
I  turned  out  my  mare  for  a  run  in  the  pasture.  She  has  rolled 
herself  again  and  again  in  the  warm  earth  and  shaken  herself 

234 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  235 

after  each  roll  with  an  equine  deHght  most  pleasant  to  see. 
Now,  from  time  to  time,  I  can  hear  her  gossipy  whickerings 
as  she  calls  across  the  fields  to  my  neighbour  Horace's  young 
bay  colts. 

When  I  first  woke  up  this  morning  I  said  to  myself: 

"Well,  nothing  happened  yesterday." 

Then  I  lay  quiet  for  some  time — it  being  Sunday  morning 
— and  I  turned  over  in  my  mind  all  that  I  had  heard  or  seen  or 
felt  or  thought  about  in  that  one  day.  And  presently  I  said 
aloud  to  myself: 

"Why,  nearly  everything  happened  yesterday." 

And  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  interesting,  the  more 
wonderful,  the  more  explanatory  of  high  things,  appeared  the 
common  doings  of  that  June  Saturday.  I  had  walked  among 
unusual  events — and  had  not  known  the  wonder  of  them!  I  had 
eyes,  but  I  did  not  see— and  ears,  but  I  heard  not.  It  may  be,  it 
may  be,  that  the  Future  Life  of  which  we  have  had  such  con- 
fusing but  wistful  prophecies  is  only  the  reliving  with  a  full 
understanding,  of  this  marvellous  Life  that  we  now  know.  To  a 
full  understanding  this  day,  this  moment  even — here  in  this  quiet 
room— would  contain  enough  to  crowd  an  eternity.  Oh,  we  are 
children  yet — playing  with  things  much  too  large  for  us — much 
too  full  of  meaning. 

Yesterday  I  cut  my  field  of  early  clover.  I  should  have 
been  at  it  a  full  week  earHer  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  frequent 
and  sousing  spring  showers.  Already  half  the  blossoms  of  the 
clover  had  turned  brown  and  were  shrivelling  away  into  incon- 
spicuous seediness.  The  leaves  underneath  on  the  lower  parts 
of  the  stems  were  curling  up  and  fading;  many  of  them 
had  already  dropped  away.  There  is  a  tide  also  in  the  affairs  of 
clover  and  if  a  farmer  would  profit  by  his  crop,  it  must  be 
taken  at  its  flood. 

I  began  to  watch  the  skies  with  some  anxiety,  and  on  Thurs- 
day I  was  delighted  to  see  the  weather  become  clearer,  and  a 
warm  dry  wind  spring  up  from  the  southwest.  On  Friday 
there  was  not  so  much  as  a  cloud  of  the  size  of  a  man's  hand 


236  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

to  be  seen  anywhere  in  the  sky,  not  one,  and  the  sun  with  lively 
diligence  had  begun  to  make  up  for  the  listlessness  of  the  past 
week.  It  was  hot  and  dry  enough  to  suit  the  most  exacting  hay- 
maker. 

Encouraged  by  these  favourable  symptoms  I  sent  word  to 
Dick  Sheridan  (by  one  of  Horace's  men)  to  come  over  bright 
and  early  on  Saturday  morning.  My  field  is  only  a  small  one 
and  so  rough  and  uneven  that  I  had  concluded  with  Dick's 
help  to  cut  it  by  hand.  I  thought  that  on  a  pinch  it  could  all  be 
done  in  one  day. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "we'll  cut  the  clover  to-morrow." 

"That's  fortunate,"  said  Harriet,  "I'd  already  arranged  to  have 
Ann  Spencer  in  to  help  me." 

Yesterday  morning,  then,  I  got  out  earlier  than  usual.  It 
was  a  perfect  June  morning,  one  of  the  brightest  and  clearest  I 
think  I  ever  saw.  The  mists  had  not  yet  risen  from  the  hollows 
of  my  lower  fields,  and  all  the  earth  was  fresh  with  dew  and 
sweet  with  the  mingled  odours  of  growing  things.  No  hour 
of  the  whole  day  is  more  perfect  than  this. 

I  walked  out  along  the  edge  of  the  orchard  and  climbed  the 
fence  of  the  field  beyond.  As  I  stooped  over  I  could  smell  the 
heavy  sweet  odour  of  the  clover  blossoms.  I  could  see  the  billowy 
green  sweep  of  the  glistening  leaves.  I  lifted  up  a  mass  of  the 
tangled  stems  and  laid  the  palm  of  my  hand  on  the  earth  under- 
neath. It  was  neither  too  wet  nor  too  dry. 

"We  shall  have  good  cutting  to-day,"  I  said  to  myself. 

So  I  stood  up  and  looked  with  a  satisfaction  impossible  to 
describe  across  the  acres  of  my  small  domain,  marking  where 
in  the  low  spots  the  crop  seemed  heaviest,  where  it  was  lodged 
and  tangled  by  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  where  in  the  higher 
spaces  it  grew  scarce  thick  enough  to  cover  the  sad  baldness  of 
the  knolls.  How  much  more  we  get  out  of  life  than  we  deserve! 

So  I  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  field  to  the  orchard  gate, 
which  I  opened  wide. 

"Here,"  I  said,  "is  where  we  will  begin." 

So  I  turned  back  to  the  barn.  I  had  not  reached  the  other 
side  of  the  orchard  when  who  should  I  see  but  Dick  Sheridan 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 


237 


himself,  coming  in  at  the  lane  gate.  He  had  an  old,  coarse- 
woven  straw  hat  stuck  resplendently  on  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  was  carrying  his  scythe  jauntily  over  his  shoulder  and 
whistling  "Good-bye,  Susan"  at  the  top  of  his  capacity. 

Dick  Sheridan  is  a  cheerful  young  fellow  with  a  thin  brown 
face  and  (milky)  blue  eyes.  He  has  an  enormous  Adam's  apple 
which  has  an  odd  way  of  moving  up  and  down  when  he  talks — 
and  one  large  tooth  out  in  front.  His  body  is  like  a  bundle  of 


wires,  as  thin  and  muscular  and  enduring  as  that  of  a  broncho 
pony.  He  can  work  all  day  long  and  then  go  down  to  the  lodge- 
hall  at  the  Crossing  and  dance  half  the  night.  You  should  really 
see  him  when  he  dances!  He  can  jump  straight  up  and  click 
his  heels  twice  together  before  he  comes  down  again!  On  such 
occasions  he  is  marvellously  clad,  as  befits  the  gallant  that  he 
really  is,  but  this  morning  he  wore  a  faded  shirt  and  one  of  his 
suspender  cords  behind  was  fastened  with  a  nail  instead  of  a 
button.  His  socks  are  sometimes  pale  blue  and  sometimes 
lavender  and  commonly,  therefore,  he  turns  up  his  trouser 
legs  so  that  these  vanities  may  not  be  wholly  lost  upon  a  dull 
world.  His  full  name  is  Richard  Tecumseh  Sheridan,  but  every 


238  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

one  calls  him  Dick.  A  good,  cheerful  fellow,  Dick,  and  a  hard 
worker.  I  Uke  him. 

"Hello,  Dick,"  I  shouted. 

"Hello  yourself,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he  replied. 

He  hung  his  scythe  in  the  branches  of  a  pear  tree  and  we 
both  turned  into  the  barnyard  to  get  the  chores  out  of  the  way. 
I  wanted  to  delay  cutting  as  long  as  I  could — until  the  dew  on 
the  clover  should  begin — at  least — to  disappear. 

By  half-past-seven  we  were  ready  for  work.  We  rolled  back 
our  sleeves,  stood  our  scythes  on  end  and  gave  them  a  final 
lively  stoning.  You  could  hear  the  brisk  sound  of  the  ringing 
metal  peaHng  through  the  still  morning  air. 

"It's  a  great  day  for  haying,"  I  said. 

"A  dang  good  one,"  responded  the  laconic  Dick,  wetting  his 
thumb  to  feel  the  edge  of  his  scythe. 

I  cannot  convey  with  any  mere  pen  upon  any  mere  paper  the 
feeling  of  jauntiness  I  had  at  that  moment,  as  of  conquest 
and  fresh  adventure,  as  of  great  things  to  be  done  in  a  great 
world!  You  may  say  if  you  like  that  this  exhilaration  was  due 
to  good  health  and  the  exuberance  of  youth.  But  it  was  more 
than  that — far  more.  I  cannot  well  express  it,  but  it  seemed  as 
though  at  that  moment  Dick  and  I  were  stepping  out  into  some 
vast  current  of  human  activity:  as  though  we  had  the  universe 
itself  behind  us,  and  the  warm  regard  and  approval  of  all  men. 

I  stuck  my  whetstone  in  my  hip-pocket,  bent  forward  and 
cut  the  first  short  sharp  swath  in  the  clover.  I  swept  the  mass 
of  tangled  green  stems  into  the  open  space  just  outside  the 
gate.  Three  or  four  more  strokes  and  Dick  stopped  whistling 
suddenly,  spat  on  his  hands  and  with  a  lively  "Here  she  goes!" 
came  swinging  in  behind  me.  The  clover-cutting  had  begun. 

At  first  I  thought  the  heat  would  be  utterly  unendurable,  and, 
then,  with  dripping  face  and  wet  shoulders,  I  forgot  all  about 
it.  Oh,  there  is  something  incomparable  about  such  work — the 
long  steady  pull  of  willing  and  healthy  muscles,  the  mind 
undisturbed  by  any  disquieting  thought,  the  feeling  of  attain- 
ment through  vigorous  effort!  It  was  a  steady  swing  and  swish, 
swish  and  swing!  When  Dick  led  I  have  a  picture  of  him  in  my 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  239 

mind's  eye— his  wiry  thin  legs,  one  heel  lifted  at  each  step  and 
held  rigid  for  a  single  instant,  a  glimpse  of  pale  blue  socks  above 
his  rusty  shoes  and  three  inches  of  whetstone  sticking  from 
his  tight  hip-pocket.  It  was  good  to  have  him  there  whether  he 
led  or  followed. 

At  each  return  to  the  orchard  end  of  the  field  we  looked  for 
and  found  a  gray  stone  jug  in  the  grass.  I  had  brought  it  up 
with  me  filled  with  cool  water  from  the  pump.  Dick  had  a 
way  of  swinging  it  up  with  one  hand,  resting  it  in  his  shoulder, 
turning  his  head  just  so  and  letting  the  water  gurgle  into  his 
throat.  I  have  never  been  able  myself  to  reach  this  refinement 
in  the  art  of  drinking  from  a  jug. 

And  oh!  the  good  feel  of  a  straightened  back  after  two  long 
swathes  in  the  boiling  sun!  We  would  stand  a  moment  in  the 
shade,  whetting  our  scythes,  not  saying  much,  but  glad  to  be 
there  together.  Then  we  would  go  at  it  again  with  renewed 
energy.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  working  companion.  Many 
times  thar  day  Dick  and  I  looked  aside  at  each  other  with  a 
curious  sense  of  friendliness — that  sense  of  friendliness  which 
grows  out  of  common  rivalries,  common  difficulties  and  a  com- 
mon wearmess.  We  did  not  talk  much:  and  that  little  of  trivial 
matters. 
"Jim  Brewster's  mare  had  a  colt  on  Wednesday." 
"This'll  go  three  tons  to  the  acre,  or  I'll  eat  my  shirt." 
Dick  was  always  about  to  eat  his  shirt  if  some  particular 
prophecy  of  his  did  not  materialize. 
"Dang  it  all,"  says  Dick,  "the  moon's  drawin'  water." 
"Something  is  undoubtedly  drawing  it,"  said  I,  wiping  my 
dripping  face. 

A  meadow  lark  sprang  up  with  a  song  in  the  adjoining  field, 
a  few  heavy  old  bumble-bees  droned  in  the  clover  as  we  cut  it, 
and  once  a  frightened  rabbit  ran  out,  darting  swiftly  under  the 
orchard  fence. 

So  the  long  forenoon  slipped  away.  At  times  it  seemed 
endless,  and  yet  we  were  surprised  when  we  heard  the  bell  from 
the  house  (what  a  sound  it  was!)  and  we  left  our  cutting  in 
the  middle  of  the  field,  nor  waited  for  another  stroke. 


240  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"Hungry,  Dick?"  I  asked. 

"Hungry!"  exclaimed  Dick  with  all  the  eloquence  o£  a  lengthy 
oration  crowded  into  one  word. 

So  we  drifted  through  the  orchard,  and  it  was  good  to  see 
the  house  with  smoke  in  the  kitchen  chimney,  and  the  shade 
of  the  big  maple  where  it  rested  upon  the  porch.  And  not  far 
from  the  maple  we  could  see  our  friendly  pump  with  the  moist 
boards  of  the  well-cover  in  front  of  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
good  it  looked  as  we  came  in  from  the  hot,  dry  fields. 

"After  you,"  says  Dick. 

I  gave  my  sleeves  another  roll  upward  and  unbuttoned  and 
turned  in  the  moist  collar  of  my  shirt.  Then  I  stooped  over 
and  put  my  head  under  the  pump  spout. 

"Pump,  Dick,"  said  I. 

And  Dick  pumped. 

"Harder,  Dick,"  said  I  in  a  strangled  voice. 

And  Dick  pumped  still  harder,  and  presently  I  came  up 
gasping  with  my  head  and  hair  dripping  with  the  cool  water. 
Then  I  pumped  for  Dick. 

"Gee,  but  that's  good,"  says  Dick. 

Harriet  came  out  with  clean  towels,  and  we  dried  ourselves, 
and  talked  together  in  low  voices.  And  feeling  a  deUcious  sense 
of  coolness  we  sat  down  for  a  moment  in  the  shade  of  the  maple 
and  rested  our  arms  on  our  knees.  From  the  kitchen,  as  we  sat 
there,  we  could  hear  the  engaging  sounds  of  preparation,  and 
busy  voices,  and  the  tinkUng  of  dishes,  and  agreeable  odours! 
Ah,  friend  and  brother,  there  may  not  be  better  moments  in 
life  than  this! 

So  we  sat  resting,  thinking  of  nothing;  and  presently  we 
heard  the  screen  door  cHck  and  Ann  Spencer's  motherly  voice: 

"Come  in  now,  Mr.  Grayson,  and  get  your  dinner." 

Harriet  had  set  the  table  on  the  east  porch,  where  it  was 
cool  and  shady.  Dick  and  I  sat  down  opposite  each  other  and 
between  us  there  was  a  great  brown  bowl  of  moist  brown  beans 
with  crispy  strips  of  pork  on  top,  and  a  good  steam  rising 
from  its  depths;  and  a  small  mountain  of  baked  potatoes, 
each  a  little  broken  to  show  the  snowy  white  interior;  and 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  241 

two  towers  of  such  new  bread  as  no  one  on  this  earth  (or  in 
any  other  planet  so  far  as  I  know)  but  Harriet  can  make.  And 
before  we  had  even  begun  our  dinner  in  came  the  ample  Ann 
Spencer,  quaking  with  hospitality,  and  bearing  a  platter — let  me 
here  speak  of  it  with  the  bated  breath  of  a  proper  respect,  for  I 
cannot  even  now  think  of  it  without  a  sort  of  inner  thrill — bear- 
ing a  platter  of  her  most  famous  fried  chicken.  Harriet  had  sacri- 
ficed the  promising  careers  of  two  young  roosters  upon  the 
altar  of  this  important  occasion.  I  may  say  in  passing  that  Ann 
Spencer  is  more  celebrated  in  our  neighbourhood  by  virtue 
of  her  genius  at  frying  chicken,  than  Aristotle  or  Solomon  or 
Socrates,  or  indeed  all  the  big-wigs  of  the  past  rolled  into  one. 

So  we  fell  to  with  a  silent  but  none  the  less  fervid  enthusiasm. 
Harriet  hovered  about  us,  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  poured 
the  tea  and  the  buttermilk,  and  Ann  Spencer  upon  every 
possible  occasion  passed  the  chicken. 

"More  chicken,  Mr.  Grayson?"  she  would  inquire  in  a  tone 
of  voice  that  made  your  mouth  water. 

"More  chicken,  Dick?"  I'd  ask. 

"More  chicken,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he  would  respond — and  thus 
we  kept  up  a  tenuous,  but  pleasant  Uttle  joke  between  us. 

Just  outside  the  porch  in  a  thicket  of  lilacs  a  catbird  sang 
to  us  while  we  ate,  and  my  dog  lay  in  the  shade  with  his  nose 
on  his  paws  and  one  eye  open  just  enough  to  show  any  stray 
flies  that  he  was  not  to  be  trifled  with — and  far  away  to  the 
North  and  East  one  could  catch  glimpses — if  he  had  eyes  for 
such  things — of  the  wide-stretching  pleasantness  of  our  country- 
side. 

I  soon  saw  that  something  mysterious  was  going  on  in  the 
kitchen.  Harriet  would  look  significantly  at  Ann  Spencer  and 
Ann  Spencer,  who  could  scarcely  contain  her  overflowing  smiles, 
would  look  significantly  at  Harriet.  As  for  me,  I  sat  there  with 
perfect  confidence  in  myself— in  my  ultimate  capacity,  as  it 
were.  Whatever  happened,  I  was  ready  for  it! 

And  the  great  surprise  came  at  last:  a  SHORT-CAKE:  a 
great,  big,  red,  juicy,  buttery,  sugary  short-cake,  with  rasp- 
berries heaped  up  all  over  it.  When  It  came  in — and  I  am  speak- 


242 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


ing  of  it  in  that  personal  way  because  it  radiated  such  an 
effulgence  that  I  cannot  now  remember  whether  it  was  Harriet 
or  Ann  Spencer  who  brought  it  in — when  It  came  in,  Dick,  who 
pretends  to  be  abashed  upon  such  occasions,  gave  one  swift 
glance  upward  and  then  emitted  a  long,  low,  expressive  whistle. 
When  Beethoven  found  himself  throbbing  with  undescribable 
emotions  he  composed  a  sonata;  when  Keats  felt  odd  things 
stirring  within  him  he  wrote  an  ode  to  an  urn,  but  my  friend 
Dick,  quite  as  evidently  on  fire  with  his  emotions,  merely 
whistled — and  then  looked  around  evidently  embarrassed  lest 


he  should  have  infringed  upon  the  proprieties  of  that  occasion. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "you  and  Ann  Spencer  are  benefactors  of 
the  human  race." 

"Go  'way  now,"  said  Ann  Spencer,  shaking  all  over  with 
pleasure,  "and  eat  your  short-cake." 

And  after  dinner  how  pleasant  it  was  to  stretch  at  full  length 
for  a  few  minutes  on  the  grass  in  the  shade  of  the  maple  tree 
and  look  up  through  the  dusky  thick  shadows  of  the  leaves.  If 
ever  a  man  feels  the  blissfulness  of  complete  content  it  is  at 
such  a  moment — every  muscle  in  the  body  deliciously  resting, 
and  a  peculiar  exhilaration  animating  the  mind  to  quiet 
thoughts.  I  have  heard  talk  of  the  hard  work  of  the  hay-fields, 
but  I  never  yet  knew  a  healthy  man  who  did  not  recall  many 
moments  of  exquisite  pleasure  connected  with  the  hardest  and 
the  hottest  work. 

I  think  sometimes  that  the  nearer  a  man  can  place  himself  in 
the  full  current  of  natural  things  the  happier  he  is.  If  he  can 
become  a  part  of  the  Universal  Process  and  know  that  he  is  a 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  243 

part,  that  is  happiness.  All  day  yesterday  I  had  that  deep  quiet 
feeling  that  I  was  somehow  not  working  for  myself,  not  because 
I  was  covetous  for  money,  nor  driven  by  fear,  not  surely  for 
fame,  but  somehow  that  I  was  a  necessary  element  in  the  proc- 
esses of  the  earth.  I  was  a  primal  force!  I  was  the  indispensable 
Harvester.  Without  me  the  earth  could  not  revolve! 

Oh,  friend,  there  are  spiritual  values  here,  too.  For  how  can  a 
man  know  God  without  yielding  himself  fully  to  the  processes  of 
God? 

I  lived  yesterday.  I  played  my  part.  I  took  my  place.  And  all 
hard  things  grew  simple,  and  all  crooked  things  seemed  straight, 
and  all  roads  were  open  and  clear  before  me.  Many  times  that 
day  I  paused  and  looked  up  from  my  work  knowing  that  I  had 
something  to  be  happy  for. 

At  one  o'clock  Dick  and  I  lagged  our  way  unwillingly  out  to 
work  again— rusty  of  muscles,  with  a  feeling  that  the  heat  would 
now  surely  be  unendurable  and  the  work  impossibly  hard.  The 
scythes  were  oddly  heavy  and  hot  to  the  touch,  and  the  stones 
seemed  hardly  to  make  a  sound  in  the  heavy  noon  air.  The  cows 
had  sought  the  shady  pasture  edges,  the  birds  were  still,  all  the 
air  shook  with  heat.  Only  man  must  toil! 

"It's  danged  hot,"  said  Dick  conclusively. 

How  reluctantly  we  began  the  work  and  how  difficult  it 
seemed  compared  with  the  task  of  the  morning!  In  half  an  hour, 
however,  the  reluctance  passed  away  and  we  were  swinging  as 
steadily  as  we  did  at  any  time  in  the  forenoon.  But  we  said  less — 
if  that  were  possible — and  made  every  ounce  of  energy  count. 
I  shall  not  here  attempt  to  chronicle  all  the  events  of  the  after- 
noon, how  we  finished  the  mowing  of  the  field  and  how  we 
went  over  it  swiftly  and  raked  the  long  windrows  into  cocks, 
or  how,  as  the  evening  began  to  fall,  we  turned  at  last  wearily 
toward  the  house.  The  day's  work  was  done. 

Dick  had  stopped  whistHng  long  before  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  but  now  as  he  shouldered  his  scythe  he  struck  up 
"My  Fairy  Fay"  with  some  marks  of  his  earlier  enthusiasm. 

"Well,  Dick,"  said  I,  "we've  had  a  good  day's  work  together.'" 

"You  bet,"  said  Dick. 


244  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

And  I  watched  him  as  he  went  down  the  lane  with  a  pleasant 
friendly  feeling  of  companionship.  We  had  done  great  things 
together. 

I  wonder  if  you  ever  felt  the  joy  of  utter  physical  weariness: 
not  exhaustion,  but  weariness.  I  wonder  if  you  have  ever  sat 
down,  as  I  did  last  night,  and  felt  as  though  you  would  like  to 
remain  just  there  always — without  stirring  a  single  muscle, 
without  speaking,  without  thinking  even! 

Such  a  moment  is  not  painful,  but  quite  the  reverse — ^it  is 
supremely  pleasant.  So  I  sat  for  a  time  last  evening  on  my 
porch.  The  cool,  still  night  had  fallen  sweetly  after  the  burning 
heat  of  the  day.  I  heard  all  the  familiar  sounds  of  the  night.  A 
whippoorwill  began  to  whistle  in  the  distant  thicket.  Harriet 
came  out  quietly — I  could  see  the  white  of  her  gown — and 
sat  near  me.  I  heard  the  occasional  sleepy  tinkle  of  a  cowbell, 
and  the  crickets  were  calling.  A  star  or  two  came  out  in  the 
perfect  dark  blue  of  the  sky.  The  deep,  sweet,  restful  night  was 
on.  I  don't  know  that  I  said  it  aloud — such  things  need  not  be 
said  aloud — but  as  I  turned  almost  numbly  into  the  house,  stum- 
bling on  my  way  to  bed,  my  whole  being  seemed  to  cry  out: 
"Thank  God,  thank  God." 


XI 

AN  OLD  MAN 


Ao-DAY  I  saw  Uncle  Richard  Summers  walking  in  the  town  road: 
and  cannot  get  him  out  of  my  mind.  I  think  I  never  knew  any 
one  who  wears  so  plainly  the  garment  of  Detached  Old  Age 
as  he.  One  would  not  now  think  of  calling  him  a  farmer,  any 
more  than  one  would  think  of  calling  him  a  doctor,  a  lawyer,  or 
a  justice  of  the  peace.  No  one  would  think  now  of  calling  him 
"Squire  Summers,"  though  he  bore  that  name  with  no  small 
credit  many  years  ago.  He  is  no  longer  known  as  hardworking, 
or  able,  or  grasping,  or  rich,  or  wicked:  he  is  just  Old.  Every- 
thing seems  to  have  been  stripped  away  from  Uncle  Richard 
except  age. 

How  well  I  remember  the  first  time  Uncle  Richard  Summers 
impressed  himself  upon  my  mind.  It  was  after  the  funeral  of  his 
old  wife,  now  several  years  ago.  I  saw  him  standing  at  the  open 
grave  with  his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  held  at  his  breast.  His 
head  was  bowed  and  his  thin,  soft,  white  hair  stirred  in  the 
warm  breeze.  I  wondered  at  his  quietude.  After  fifty  years  or 
more  together  his  nearest  companion  and  friend  had  gone,  and 
he  did  not  weep  aloud.  Afterward  I  was  again  impressed  with 
the  same  fortitude  or  quietude.  I  saw  him  walking  down  the 
long  drive  to  the  main  road  with  all  the  friends  of  our  neighbour- 
hood about  him — and  the  trees  rising  full  and  calm  on  one  side, 
and  the  still  greenery  of  the  cemetery  stretching  away  on  the 

245 


246  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

other.  Half  way  down  the  drive  he  turned  aside  to  the  fence 
and  all  unconscious  of  the  halted  procession,  he  picked  a  handful 
of  the  large  leaves  of  the  wild  grape.  It  was  a  hot  day;  he  took  off 
his  hat,  and  put  the  cool  leaves  in  the  crown  of  it  and  rejoined 
the  procession.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  the  mere  forgetful- 
ness  of  old  age,  nor  yet  callousness  to  his  own  great  sorrow.  It 
was  rather  an  instinctive  return  to  the  immeasurable  continuity 
of  the  trivial  things  of  life — the  trivial  necessary  things  which 
so  often  carry  us  over  the  greatest  tragedies. 


I  talked  with  the  Scotch  Preacher  afterward  about  the  inci- 
dent. He  said  that  he,  too,  marvelling  at  the  old  man's  calm- 
ness, had  referred  to  it  in  his  presence.  Uncle  Richard  turned 
to  him  and  said  slowly: 

"I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  have  learned  one  thing.  I  have  learned 
to  accept  Hfe." 

Since  that  day  I  have  seen  Uncle  Richard  Summers  many 
times  walking  on  the  country  roads  with  his  cane.  He  always 
looks  around  at  me  and  slowly  nods  his  head,  but  rarely  says 
anything.  At  his  age  what  is  there  to  say  that  has  not  already 
been  said.? 

His  trousers  appear  a  size  too  large  for  him,  his  hat  sets 
too  far  down,  his  hands  are  long  and  thin  upon  the  head  of  his 
cane.  But  his  face  is  tranquil.  He  has  come  a  long  way;  there 
have  been  times  of  tempest  and  keen  winds,  there  have  been 
wild  hills  in  his  road,  and  rocky  places,  and  threatening  voices 
in  the  air.  All  that  is  past  now:  and  his  face  is  tranquil. 

I  think  we  younger  people  do  not  often  realize  how  keenly 
dependent  we  are  upon  our  contemporaries  in  age.  We  get 
little  understanding  and  sympathy  either  above  or  below  them. 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  247 

Much  of  the  world  is  a  Httle  misty  to  us,  a  little  out  of  focus. 
Uncle  Richard  Summers'  contemporaries  have  nearly  all  gone 
— mostly  long  ago:  one  of  the  last,  his  old  wife.  At  his  home — 
I  have  been  there  often  to  see  his  son — he  sits  in  a  large  rocking- 
chair  with  a  cushion  in  it,  and  a  comfortable  high  back  to  lean 
upon.  No  one  else  ventures  to  sit  in  his  chair,  even  when  he  is 
not  there.  It  is  not  far  from  the  window;  and  when  he  sits 
down  he  can  lean  his  cane  against  the  wall  where  he  can  easily 
reach  it  again. 

There  is  a  turmoil  of  youth  and  life  always  about  him;  of  fe- 
vered incomings  and  excited  outgoings,  of  work  and  laughter 
and  tears  and  joy  and  anger.  He  watches  it  all,  for  his  mind  is 
still  clear,  but  he  does  not  take  sides.  He  accepts  everything, 
refuses  nothing;  or,  if  you  like,  he  refuses  everything,  accepts 
nothing. 

He  once  owned  the  house  where  he  now  lives,  with  the  great 
barns  behind  it  and  the  fertile  acres  spreading  far  on  every  hand. 
From  his  chair  he  can  look  out  through  a  small  window,  and 
see  the  sun  on  the  quiet  fields.  He  once  went  out  swiftly  and 
strongly,  he  worked  hotly,  he  came  in  wearied  to  sleep. 

Now  he  lives  in  a  small  room — and  that  is  more  than  is  really 
necessary — and  when  he  walks  out  he  does  not  inquire  who 
owns  the  land  where  he  treads.  He  lets  the  hot  world  go  by, 
and  waits  with  patience  the  logic  of  events. 

Often  as  I  have  passed  him  in  the  road,  I  have  wondered,  as 
I  have  been  wondering  to-day,  how  he  must  look  out  upon  us 
all,  upon  our  excited  comings  and  goings,  our  immense  concern 
over  the  immeasurably  trivial.  I  have  wondered,  not  without  a 
pang,  and  a  resolution,  whether  I  shall  ever  reach  the  point 
where  I  can  let  this  eager  and  fascinating  world  go  by  without 
taking  toll  of  it! 


XII 

THE  CELEBRITY 


Nc 


OT  FOR  MANY  WEEKS  havc  I  had  a  more  interesting,  more 
illuminating,  and  when  all  is  told,  a  more  amusing  experience, 
than  I  had  this  afternoon.  Since  this  afternoon  the  world  has 
seemed  a  more  satisfactory  place  to  live  in,  and  my  own  home 
here,  the  most  satisfactory,  the  most  central  place  in  all  the 
world.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  anything  may  happen 
here! 

We  have  had  a  celebrity  in  our  small  midst,  and  the  hills,  as 
the  Psalmist  might  say,  have  lifted  up  their  heads,  and  the  trees 
have  clapped  their  hands  together.  He  came  here  last  Tuesday 
evening  and  spoke  at  the  School  House.  I  was  not  there  myself; 
if  I  had  been,  I  should  not,  perhaps,  have  had  the  adventure 
which  has  made  this  day  so  livable,  nor  met  the  Celebrity  face 
to  face. 
Let  me  here  set  down  a  close  secret  regarding  celebrities : 
They  cannot  survive  without  common  people  li\e  you  and  me, 

248 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  249 

ft  follows  that  if  we  do  not  pursue  a  celebrity,  sooner  or 
later  he  will  pursue  us.  He  must;  it  is  the  law  of  his  being. 
So  I  wait  here  very  comfortably  on  my  farm,  and  as  I  work 
in  my  fields  I  glance  up  casually  from  time  to  time  to  see  if 
any  celebrities  are  by  chance  coming  up  the  town  road  to  seek 
me  out.  Oh,  we  are  crusty  people,  we  farmers!  Sooner  or  later 
they  all  come  this  way,  all  the  warriors  and  the  poets,  all  the 
philosophers  and  the  prophets  and  the  politicians.  If  they  do  not, 
indeed,  get  time  to  come  before  they  are  dead,  we  have  full 
assurance  that  they  will  straggle  along  afterward  clad  neatly  in 
sheepskin,  or  more  gorgeously  in  green  buckram  with  gilt  letter- 
ing. Whatever  the  airs  of  pompous  importance  they  may  as- 
sume as  they  come,  back  of  it  all  we  farmers  can  see  the  look 
of  wistful  eagerness  in  their  eyes.  They  know  well  enough 
that  they  must  give  us  something  which  we  in  our  commonness 
regard  as  valuable  enough  to  exchange  for  a  bushel  of  our 
potatoes,  or  a  sack  of  our  white  onions.  No  poem  that  we  can 
enjoy,  no  speech  that  tickles  us,  no  prophecy  that  thrills  us — 
neither  dinner  nor  immortality  for  them!  And  we  are  hard- 
headed  Yankees  at  our  bargainings;  many  a  puffed-up  celebrity 
loses  his  puffiness  at  our  doors! 

This  afternoon,  as  I  came  out  on  my  porch  after  dinner, 
feeling  content  with  myself  and  all  the  world,  I  saw  a  man 
driving  our  way  in  a  one-horse  top-buggy.  In  the  country  it  is 
our  custom  first  to  identify  the  horse,  and  that  gives  us  a  sure 
clue  to  the  identification  of  the  driver.  This  horse  plainly  did 
not  belong  in  our  neighbourhood  and  plainly  as  it  drew  nearer, 
it  bore  the  unmistakable  marks  of  the  town  livery.  Therefore, 
the  driver,  in  all  probability,  was  a  stranger  in  these  parts. 
What  strangers  were  in  town  who  would  wish  to  drive  this 
way?  The  man  who  occupied  the  buggy  was  large  and  slow- 
looking;  he  wore  a  black,  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  and  a  black 
coat,  a  man  evidently  of  some  presence.  And  he  drove  slowly 
and  awkwardly;  not  an  agent  plainly.  Thus  the  logic  of  the 
country  bore  fruitage. 


250 


ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 


"Harriet,"  I  said,  calling  through  the  open  doorway,  "I  think 
the  Honourable  Arthur  Caldwell  is  coming  here." 

"Mercy  me!"  exclaimed  Harriet,  appearing  in  the  doorway, 
and  as  quickly  disappearing.  I  did  not  see  her,  of  course,  but  I 
knew  instinctively  that  she  was  slipping  off  her  apron,  moving 
our  most  celebrated  rocking-chair  two  inches  nearer  the  door, 
and  whisking  a  few  invisible  particles  of  dust  from  the  centre 


table.  Every  time  any  one  of  importance  comes  our  way,  or  U 
distantly  likely  to  come  our  way,  Harriet  resolves  herself  into 
an  amiable  whirlwind  of  good  order,  subsiding  into  placidity 
at  the  first  sound  of  a  step  on  the  porch. 

As  for  me  I  remain  in  my  shirt  sleeves,  sitting  on  my  porch 
resting  a  moment  after  my  dinner.  No  sir,  I  will  positively  not 
go  in  and  get  my  coat.  I  am  an  American  citizen,  at  home  in 
my  house  with  the  sceptre  of  my  dominion — my  favourite  daily 
newspaper — in  my  hand.  Let  all  kings,  queens,  and  other 
potentates  approach! 

And  besides,  though  I  am  really  much  afraid  that  the 
Honourable  Arthur  Caldwell  will  not  stop  at  my  gate  but  will 
pass  on  towards  Horace's,  I  am  nursing  a  somewhat  light 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  251 

opinion  of  Mr.  Caldwell.  When  he  spoke  at  the  School  House 
on  Tuesday,  I  did  not  go  to  hear  him,  nor  was  my  opinion 
greatly  changed  by  what  I  learned  afterward  of  the  meeting. 
I  take  both  of  our  weekly  county  papers.  This  is  necessary.  I  add 
the  news  of  both  together,  divide  by  two  to  strike  a  fair 
average,  and  then  ask  Horace,  or  Charles  Baxter,  or  the  Scotch 
Preacher  what  really  happened.  The  Republican  county  paper 
said  of  the  meeting: 

"The  Honourable  Arthur  Caldwell,  member  of  Congress,  who 
is  seeking  a  reelection,  was  accorded  a  most  enthusiastic  re- 
ception by  a  large  and  sympathetic  audience  of  the  citizens  of 
Blandford  township  on  Tuesday  evening." 

Strangely  enough  the  Democratic  paper,  observing  exactly 
the  same  historic  events,  took  this  jaundiced  view  of  the  mat- 
ter: 

"Arty  Caldwell,  RepubUcan  boss  of  the  Sixth  District,  who 
is  out  mending  his  political  fences,  spellbound  a  handful  of 
his  henchmen  at  the  School  House  near  Blandford  Crossing 
on  Tuesday  evening." 

And  here  was  Mr.  Caldwell  himself.  Member  of  Congress, 
Leader  of  the  Sixth  District,  Favourably  Mentioned  for  Gover- 
nor, drawing  up  at  my  gate,  deUberately  descending  from  his 
buggy,  with  dignity  stopping  to  take  the  tie-rein  from  under 
the  seat,  carefully  tying  his  horse  to  my  hitching-post. 

I  confess  I  could  not  help  feeling  a  thrill  of  excitement.  Here 
was  a  veritable  Celebrity  come  to  my  house  to  explain  himself! 
I  would  not  have  it  known,  of  course,  outside  of  our  select 
circle  of  friends,  but  I  confess  that  although  I  am  a  pretty 
independent  person  (when  I  talk)  in  reaUty  there  are  few 
things  in  this  world  I  would  rather  see  than  a  new  person 
coming  up  the  walk  to  my  door.  We  cannot,  of  course,  let  the 
celebrities  know  it,  lest  they  grow  intolerable  in  their  top- 
loftiness,  but  if  they  must  have  us,  we  cannot  well  get  along 
without  them— without  the  colour  and  variety  which  they  lend 
to  a  gray  world.  I  have  spent  many  a  precious  moment  alone 
in  my  fields  looking  up  the  road  (with  what  wistful  casualness!) 
for  some  new  Socrates  or  Mark  Twain,  and  I  have  not  been 


252  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

wholly  disappointed  when  I  have  had  to  content  myself  with 
the  Travelling  EvangeUst  or  the  Syrian  Woman  who  comes 
this  way  monthly  bearing  her  pack  of  cheap  suspenders  and  blue 
bandana  handkerchiefs. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Grayson,"  said  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Caldwell,  taking  off  his  large  hat  and  pausing  with  one  foot 
on  my  step. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir,"  I  responded,  "won't  you  come  up?" 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite  me  with  a  certain  measured 
and  altogether  impressive  dignity.  I  cannot  say  that  he  was 
exactly  condescending  in  his  manners,  yet  he  made  me  feel 
that  it  was  no  small  honour  to  have  so  considerable  a  person 
sitting  there  on  the  porch  with  me.  At  the  same  time  he  was 
outwardly  not  without  a  sort  of  patient  deference  which  was 
evidently  calculated  to  put  me  at  my  ease.  Oh,  he  had  all  the 
arts  of  the  schooled  poUtician!  He  knew  to  the  last  shading  just 
the  attitude  that  he  as  a  great  man,  a  leader  in  Congress,  a 
dominant  force  in  his  party,  a  possible  candidate  for  Governor 
(and  yet  always  a  seeker  for  the  votes  of  the  people!),  must  ob- 
serve in  approaching  a  free  farmer — like  me — sitting  at  ease  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  on  his  own  porch,  taking  a  moment's  rest  after 
dinner.  It  was  a  perfect  thing  to  see! 

He  had  evidently  heard,  what  was  not  altogether  true,  that  I 
was  a  questioner  of  authority,  a  disturber  of  the  political  peace, 
and  that  (concretely)  I  was  opposing  him  for  reelection.  And 
it  was  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff  that  he  was  here  to  lay  down  the 
poUtical  law  to  me.  He  would  do  it  smiHngly  and  patiently,  but 
firmly.  He  would  use  all  the  leverage  of  his  place,  his  power,  his 
personal  appearance,  to  crush  the  presumptuous  uprising 
against  his  authority. 

I  confess  my  spirits  rose  at  the  thought.  What  in  this  world 
is  more  enthralling  than  the  meeting  of  an  unknown  adversary 
upon  the  open  field,  and  jousting  him  a  tourney.  I  felt  like  some 
modern  Robin  Hood  facing  the  panopHed  authority  of  the 
King's  man. 

And  what  a  place  and  time  it  was  for  a  combat — in  the  quietude 
of  the  summer  afternoon,  no  sound  anywhere  breaking  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  253 

still  warmth  and  sweetness  except  the  buzzing  of  bees  in  the 
clematis  at  the  end  of  the  porch — and  all  about  the  green 
countryside,  woods  and  fields  and  old  fences — and  the  brown 
road  leading  its  venturesome  way  across  a  distant  hill  toward 
the  town. 

After  explaining  who  he  was — I  told  him  I  had  recognized 
him  on  sight — we  opened  with  a  volley  of  small  shot.  We 
peppered  one  another  with  harmless  comments  on  the  weather 
and  the  state  of  the  crops.  He  advanced  cabbages  and  I  coun- 
tered with  sugar-beets.  I  am  quite  aware  that  there  are  good 
tacticians  who  deprecate  the  use  of  skirmish  lines  and  the 
desultory  fire  of  the  musketry  of  small  talk.  They  would  advance 
in  grim  silence  and  open  at  once  with  the  crushing  fire  of  their 
biggest  guns. 

But  such  fighting  is  not  for  me.  I  should  lose  half  the  joy  of  the 
battle,  and  kill  off  my  adversary  before  I  had  begun  to  like 
him!  It  wouldn't  do,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all. 

"It's  a  warm  day,"  observes  my  opponent,  and  I  take  a  sure 
measure  of  his  fighting  form.  I  rather  like  the  look  of  his  eye. 

"I  never  saw  the  corn  ripening  better,"  I  observe,  and  let 
him  feel  a  Uttle  of  the  cunning  of  the  arrangement  of  my 
forces. 

There  is  much  in  the  tone  of  the  voice,  the  cut  of  the  words, 
the  turn  of  a  phrase.  I  can  be  your  servant  with  a  "Yes  sir,'*  or 
your  master  with  a  "No  sir." 

Thus  we  warm  up  to  one  another — a  little  at  a  time— we  mass 
our  forces,  each  sees  the  white  of  his  adversary's  eyes.  I  can  even 
see  my  opponent — with  some  joy — trotting  up  his  reserves, 
having  found  the  opposition  stronger  than  he  at  first  supposed. 

"I  hear,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell,  finally,  with  a  smile  intended 
to  be  disarming,  "that  you  are  opposing  my  reelection." 

Boom!  the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

"Well,"  I  rephed,  also  smiUng,  and  not  to  be  outdone  in  the 
directness  of  my  thrust,  "I  have  told  a  few  of  my  friends  that  I 
thought  Mr.  Gaylord  would  represent  us  better  in  Congress 
than  you  have  done." 

Boom!  the  fight  is  on! 


254  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

"You  are  a  Republican,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Grayson?" 

It  was  the  inevitable  next  stroke.  When  he  found  that  I  was 
a  doubtful  follower  of  him  personally,  he  marshalled  the 
Authority  of  the  Institution  which  he  represented. 

"I  have  voted  the  RepubHcan  ticket,"  I  said,  "but  I  confess 
that  recently  I  have  not  been  able  to  distinguish  RepubUcans 
from  Democrats— and  I've  had  my  doubts,"  said  I,  "whether 
there  is  any  real  RepubUcan  party  left  to  vote  with." 

I  cannot  well  describe  the  expression  on  his  face,  nor  indeed, 
now  that  the  battle  was  on,  horsemen,  footmen,  and  big  guns, 
shall  I  attempt  to  chronicle  every  stroke  and  counter-stroke  of 
that  great  conflict. 

This  much  is  certain:  there  was  something  universal  and 
primal  about  the  battle  waged  this  quiet  afternoon  on  my  porch 
between  Mr.  Caldwell  and  me;  it  was  the  primal  struggle  be- 
tween the  leader  and  the  follower;  between  the  representative 
and  the  represented.  And  it  is  a  never-ending  conflict.  When 
the  leader  gains  a  small  advantage  the  pendulum  of  civilization 
swings  toward  aristocracy;  and  when  the  follower,  beginning 
to  think,  beginning  to  struggle,  gains  a  small  advantage,  then 
the  pendulum  inclines  toward  democracy. 

And  always,  and  always,  the  leaders  tend  to  forget  that  they 
are  only  servants,  and  would  be  masters.  "The  unending  audacity 
of  elected  persons!"  And  always,  and  always,  there  must  be  a 
following  bold  enough  to  prick  the  pretensions  of  the  leaders 
and  keep  them  in  their  places! 

Thus,  through  the  long  still  afternoon,  the  battle  waged  upon 
my  porch.  Harriet  came  out  and  met  the  Honourable  Mr.  Cald- 
well, and  sat  and  listened,  and  presently  went  in  again,  without 
having  got  half  a  dozen  words  into  the  conversation.  And  the 
bees  buzzed,  and  in  the  meadows  the  cows  began  to  come 
out  of  the  shade  to  feed  in  the  open  land. 

Gradually,  Mr.  Caldwell  put  off  his  air  of  condescension; 
he  put  off  his  appeal  to  party  authority;  he  even  stopped  argu- 
ing the  tariff  and  the  railroad  question.  Gradually,  he  ceased  to 
be  the  great  man.  Favourably  Mentioned  for  Governor,  and 
came  down  on  the  ground  with  me.  He  moved  his  chair  up 


1%/A. . 

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V 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^F'  '            '    "<W^^S^K^u-»r    W                                                                                                           Y'* 

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^^^^A  \ :'  '/ ''"^^Si^y^: .!                                   .'^ 

*t 

IS 

^■3^-'     '"/^-     -v     ■      vt 

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W^iwm 

^^B^kT*  *v-^.,'                        ^3^1 

'^i^   'f.  -.E"^ 

'■''^      "^■^  ^^S 

"He  moved  his  chair  closer  to  mine" 

255 


256  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

closer  to  mine;  he  put  his  hand  on  my  knee.  For  the  first  time 
I  began  to  see  what  manner  of  man  he  was:  to  find  out  how 
much  real  fight  he  had  in  him. 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  said,  "what  it  means  to  be  down 
there  at  Washington  in  a  time  Hke  this.  Things  clear  to  you  are 
not  clear  when  you  have  to  meet  men  in  the  committees  and  on 
the  floor  of  the  house  who  have  a  contrary  view  from  yours  and 
hold  to  it  just  as  tenaciously  as  you  do  to  your  views." 

Well,  sir,  he  gave  me  quite  a  new  impression  of  what  a 
Congressman's  job  was  like,  of  what  difficulties  and  dissensions 
he  had  to  meet  at  home,  and  what  compromises  he  had  to  ac- 
cept when  he  reached  Washington. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  said  to  him,  with  some  enthusiasm,  "I  am 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  farming  is  good  enough  for  me." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  uproariously,  and  then 
moved  up  still  closer. 

"The  trouble  with  you,  Mr.  Grayson,"  he  said,  "is  that  you 
are  looking  for  a  giant  intellect  to  represent  you  at  Washing- 
ton." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I'm  afraid  I  am." 

"Well,"  he  returned,  "they  don't  happen  along  every  day.  I'd 
Hke  to  see  the  House  of  Representatives  full  of  Washingtons  and 
JefEersons  and  Websters  and  Roosevelts.  But  there's  a  Lincoln 
only  once  in  a  century." 

He  paused  and  then  added  with  a  sort  of  wry  smile : 

"And  any  quantity  of  Caldwells!" 

That  took  me!  I  liked  him  for  it.  It  was  so  explanatory.  The 
armour  of  poHtical  artifice,  the  symbols  of  political  power, 
had  now  all  dropped  away  from  him,  and  we  sat  there  together, 
two  plain  and  friendly  human  beings,  arriving  through  stress 
and  struggle  at  a  common  understanding.  He  was  not  a  great 
leader,  not  a  statesman  at  all,  but  plainly  a  man  of  determination, 
with  a  fair  measure  of  intelligence  and  sincerity.  He  had  a  human 
desire  to  stay  in  Congress,  for  the  life  evidently  pleased  him,  and 
while  he  would  never  be  crucified  as  a  prophet,  I  felt — what 
I  had  not  felt  before  in  regard  to  him — that  he  was  sincerely 
anxious  to  serve  the  best  interests  of  his  constituents.  Added  to 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  257 

these  qualities  he  was  a  man  who  was  loyal  to  his  friends;  and 
not  ungenerous  to  his  enemies. 

Up  to  this  time  he  had  done  most  of  the  talking;  but  now, 
having  reached  a  common  basis,  I  leaned  forward  with  some 
eagerness. 

"You  won't  mind,"  I  said,  "if  I  give  you  my  view — my  common 
country  view  of  the  political  situation.  I  am  sure  I  don't  under- 


stand, and  I  don't  think  my  neighbours  here  understand,  much 
about  the  tariff  or  the  trusts  or  the  railroad  question — ^in  detail. 
We  get  general  impressions — and  stick  to  them  like  grim  death 
—for  we  know  somehow  that  we  are  right.  Generally  speaking, 
we  here  in  the  country  work  for  what  we  get " 

"And  sometimes  put  the  big  apples  at  the  top  of  the  barrel," 
nodded  Mr.  Caldwell. 

"And  sometimes  put  too  much  salt  on  top  of  the  butter,"  I 
added — "all  that,  but  on  the  whole  we  get  only  what  we  earn 
by  the  hard  daily  work  of  ploughing  and  planting  and  reaping: 
You  admit  that." 

"I  admit  it,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell. 

"And  weVe  got  the  impression  that  a  good  many  of  the  men 


258  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

down  in  New  York  and  Boston,  and  elsewhere,  through  the 
advantages  which  the  tariff  laws,  and  other  laws,  are  giving 
them,  are  getting  more  than  they  earn — a  lot  more.  And  we 
feel  that  laws  must  be  passed  which  will  prevent  all  that." 

"Now,  I  beheve  that,  too,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell  very  earnestly. 

"Then  we  belong  to  the  same  party,"  I  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  the  name  of  it  is  yet,  but  we  both  belong  to  it." 

Mr.  Caldwell  laughed. 

"And  I'll  appoint  you,"  I  said,  "my  agent  in  Washington  to 
work  out  the  changes  in  the  laws." 

"Well,  I'll  accept  the  appointment,"  said  Mr.  Caldwell — 
continuing  very  earnestly,  "if  you'll  trust  to  my  honesty  and  not 
expect  too  much  of  me  all  at  once." 

With  that  we  both  sat  back  in  our  chairs  and  looked  at  each 
other  and  laughed  with  the  greatest  good  humour  and  common 
understanding. 

"And  now,"  said  I,  rising  quickly,  "let's  go  and  get  a  drink  of 
buttermilk." 

So  we  walked  around  the  house  arm  in  arm  and  stopped  in 
the  shade  of  the  oak  tree  which  stands  near  the  spring-house. 
Harriet  came  out  in  the  whitest  of  white  dresses,  carrying  a 
tray  with  the  glasses,  and  I  opened  the  door  of  the  spring-house, 
and  felt  the  cool  air  on  my  face  and  smelt  the  good  smell  of 
butter  and  milk  and  cottage  cheese,  and  I  passed  the  cool  pitcher 
to  Harriet.  And  so  we  drank  together  there  in  the  shade  and 
talked  and  laughed. 

I  walked  down  with  Mr.  Caldwell  to  the  gate.  He  took  my 
arm  and  said  to  me : 

"I'm  glad  I  came  out  here  and  had  this  talk.  I  feel  as  though 
I  understand  my  job  better  for  it." 

"Let's  organize  a  new  party,"  I  said,  "let's  begin  with  two 
members,  you  and  I,  and  have  only  one  plank  in  the  platform." 

He  smiled. 

"You'd  have  to  crowd  a  good  deal  into  that  one  plank,"  he 
said. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  responded. 

"What  would  you  have  it?" 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  259 

"I'd  have  it  in  one  sentence,"  I  said,  "and  something  like 
this:  We  beUeve  in  the  passage  of  legislation  which  shall  pre- 
vent any  man  taking  from  the  common  store  any  more  than  he 
actually  earns." 

Mr.  Caldwell  threw  up  his  arms. 

"Mr.  Grayson,"  he  said,  "you're  an  outrageous  idealist." 

"Mr.  Caldwell,"  I  said,  "you'll  say  one  of  these  days  that  I'm 
a  practical  poUtician." 

"Well,  Harriet,"  I  said,  "he's  got  my  vote." 

"Well,  David,"  said  Harriet,  "that's  what  he  came  for." 

"It's  an  interesting  world,  Harriet,"  I  said. 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  Harriet. 

As  we  stood  on  the  porch  we  could  see  at  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  the  town  road  crosses  it,  the  slow  moving  buggy, 
and  through  the  open  curtain  at  the  back  the  heavy  form  of 
our  Congressman  with  his  slouch  hat  set  firmly  on  his  big  head. 

"We  may  be  fooled,  Harriet,"  I  observed,  "on  dogmas  and 
doctrines  and  platforms — but  if  we  cannot  trust  human  nature 
in  the  long  run,  what  hope  is  there?  It's  men  we  must  work 
with,  Harriet." 

"And  women,"  said  Harriet. 

"And  women,  of  course,"  said  I. 


XIII 
ON  FRIENDSHIP 


COME  NOW  to  the  last  of  these  Adventures  in  Friendship.  As 
I  go  out — I  hope  not  for  long — I  wish  you  might  follow  me 
to  the  door,  and  then  as  we  continue  to  talk  quietly,  I  may  be- 
guile you,  all  unconsciously,  to  the  top  of  the  steps,  or  even  find 
you  at  my  side  when  we  reach  the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  lane. 
I  wish  you  might  hate  to  let  me  go,  as  I  myself  hate  to  go! — 
And  when  I  reach  the  top  of  the  hill  (if  you  wait  long  enough) 
you  will  see  me  turn  and  wave  my  hand;  and  you  will  know  that 
I  am  still  relishing  the  joy  of  our  meeting,  and  that  I  part 
unwillingly. 

Not  long  ago,  a  friend  of  mine  wrote  a  letter  asking  me  an 
absurdly  difficult  question — difficult  because  so  direct  and 
simple. 

"What  is  friendship,  anyway?"  queried  this  philosophical 
correspondent. 

The  truth  is,  the  question  came  to  me  with  a  shock,  as 
something  quite  new.  For  I  have  spent  so  much  time  thinking 

260 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  261 

of  my  friends  that  I  have  scarcely  ever  stopped  to  reflect  upon 
the  abstract  quaHty  of  friendship.  My  attention  being  thus  called 
to  the  subject,  I  fell  to  thinking  of  it  the  other  night  as  I  sat  by 
the  fire,  Harriet  not  far  away  rocking  and  sewing,  and  my  dog 
sleeping  on  the  rug  near  me  (his  tail  stirring  whenever  I  made 
a  motion  to  leave  my  place).  And  whether  I  would  or  no  my 
friends  came  trooping  into  my  mind.  I  thought  of  our  neighbour 
Horace,  the  dryly  practical  and  sufficient  farmer,  and  of  our 
much  loved  Scotch  Preacher;  I  thought  of  the  Shy  Bee-man  and 


of  his  boisterous  double,  the  Bold  Bee-man;  I  thought  of  the  Old 
Maid,  and  how  she  talks,  for  all  the  world  like  a  rabbit  running 
in  a  furrow  (all  on  the  same  line  until  you  startle  her  out, 
when  she  slips  quickly  into  the  next  furrow  and  goes  on  run- 
ning as  ardently  as  before).  And  I  thought  of  John  Starkweather, 
our  rich  man;  and  of  the  life  of  the  girl  Anna.  And  it  was  good 
to  think  of  them  all  living  around  me,  not  far  away,  connected 
with  me  through  darkness  and  space  by  a  certain  mysterious 
human  cord.  (Oh,  there  are  mysteries  still  left  upon  this  scientific 
earth!)  As  I  sat  there  by  the  fire  I  told  them  over  one  by  one, 
remembering  with  warmth  or  amusement  or  concern  this  or  that 
characteristic  thing  about  each  of  them.  It  was  the  next  best 
thing  to  hearing  the  tramp  of  feet  on  my  porch,  to  seeing  the 
door  fly  open  (letting  in  a  gust  of  the  fresh  cool  air!),  to  crying 
a  hearty  greeting,  to  drawing  up  an  easy  chair  to  the  open  fire, 


262  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

to  watching  with  eagerness  while  my  friend  unwraps  (exclaim- 
ing all  the  while  of  the  state  of  the  weather:  "Cold,  Grayson, 
mighty  cold!")  and  finally  sits  down  beside  me,  not  too  far 
away. 

The  truth  is, — my  philosophical  correspondent — I  cannot 
formulate  any  theory  of  friendship  which  will  cover  all  the  con- 
ditions. I  know  a  few  things  that  friendship  is  not,  and  a 
few  things  that  it  is,  but  when  I  come  to  generalize  upon 
the  abstract  quality  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  for  adequate  language. 

Friendship,  it  seems  to  me,  is  like  happiness.  She  flies  pursuit, 
she  is  shy,  and  wild,  and  timid,  and  will  be  best  wooed  by  in- 
direction. Quite  unexpectedly,  sometimes,  as  we  pass  in  the 
open  road,  she  puts  her  hand  in  ours,  like  a  child.  Friendship  is 
neither  a  formaHty  nor  a  mode:  it  is  rather  a  life.  Many  and 
many  a  time  I  have  seen  Charles  Baxter  at  work  in  his  carpentry- 
shop — ^just  working,  or  talking  in  his  quiet  voice,  or  looking 
around  occasionally  through  his  steel-bowed  spectacles,  and  I 
have  had  the  feeHng  that  I  should  like  to  go  over  and  sit  on  the 
bench  near  him.  He  Uterally  talks  me  over!  I  even  want  to  touch 
him! 

It  is  not  the  substance  of  what  we  say  to  one  another  that 
makes  us  friends,  nor  yet  the  manner  of  saying  it,  nor  is  it  what 
you  do  or  I  do,  nor  is  it  what  I  give  you,  or  you  give  me,  nor 
is  it  because  we  chance  to  belong  to  the  same  church,  or  society 
or  party  that  makes  us  friendly.  Nor  is  it  because  we  entertain 
the  same  views  or  respond  to  the  same  emotions.  All  these  things 
may  serve  to  bring  us  nearer  together  but  no  one  of  them  can 
of  itself  kindle  the  divine  fire  of  friendship.  A  friend  is  one 
with  whom  we  are  fond  of  being  when  no  business  is  afoot  nor 
any  entertainment  contemplated.  A  man  may  well  be  silent  with 
a  friend.  "I  do  not  need  to  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he 
feels,"  says  the  poet,  "I  myself  became  the  wounded  person." 

Not  all  people  come  to  friendship  in  the  same  way.  Some 
possess  a  veritable  genius  for  intimacy  and  will  be  making  a 
dozen  friends  where  I  make  one.  Our  Scotch  Preacher  is  such 
a  person.  I  never  knew  any  man  with  a  gift  of  intimacy  so 
persuasive  as  his.  He  is  so  simple  and  direct  that  he  cuts  through 


ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP  263 

the  stoniest  reserve  and  strikes  at  once  upon  those  personal 
things  which  with  all  of  us  are  so  far  more  real  than  any  outward 
interest.  "Good-morning,  friend,"  I  have  heard  him  say  to  a 
total  stranger,  and  within  half  an  hour  they  had  their  heads 
together  and  were  talking  of  things  which  make  men  cry.  It  is 
an  extraordinary  gift. 

As  for  me,  I  confess  it  to  be  a  selfish  interest  or  curiosity 
which  causes  me  to  stop  almost  any  man  by  the  way,  and  to 


take  something  of  what  he  has — ^because  it  pleases  me  to  do  so. 
I  try  to  pay  in  coin  as  good  as  I  get,  but  I  recognize  it  as  a  law- 
less procedure.  For  the  coin  I  give  (being  such  as  I  myself 
secretly  make)  is  for  them  sometimes  only  spurious  metal,  while 
what  I  get  is  for  me  the  very  treasure  of  the  Indies.  For  a  lift  in 
my  wagon,  a  drink  at  the  door,  a  flying  word  across  my  fences, 
I  have  taken  argosies  of  minted  wealth! 

Especially  do  I  enjoy  all  travelHng  people.  I  wait  for  them 
(how  eagerly)  here  on  my  farm.  I  watch  the  world  drift  by  in 
daily  tides  upon  the  road,  flowing  outward  in  the  morning 
toward  the  town,  and  as  surely  at  evening  drifting  back  again.  I 
look  out  with  a  pleasure  impossible  to  convey  upon  those  who 


264  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVID  GRAYSON 

come  this  way  from  the  town :  the  Syrian  woman  going  by  in  the 
gray  town  road,  with  her  bright-coloured  head-dress,  and  her 
oil-cloth  pack;  and  the  Old-ironman  with  his  dusty  wagon, 
jangling  his  Httle  bells,  and  the  cheerful  weazened  Herb-doctor 
in  his  faded  hat,  and  the  Signman  with  his  mouth  full  of 
nails — how  they  are  all  marked  upon  by  the  town,  all  dusted 
with  the  rosy  bloom  of  human  experience.  How  often  in  fancy 
I  have  pursued  them  down  the  valley  and  watched  them  until 
they  drifted  out  of  sight  beyond  the  hill!  Or  how  often  I  have 
stopped  them  or  they  (too  wilHngly)  have  stopped  me— and 
we  have  fenced  and  parried  with  fine  bold  words. 

If  you  should  ever  come  by  my  farm — you,  whoever  you  are — 
take  care  lest  I  board  you,  hoist  my  pirate  flag,  and  sail  you 
away  to  the  Enchanted  Isle  where  I  make  my  rendezvous. 

It  is  not  short  of  miraculous  how,  with  cultivation,  one's  ca- 
pacity for  friendship  increases.  Once  I  myself  had  scarcely  room 
in  my  heart  for  a  single  friend,  who  am  now  so  wealthy  in 
friendships.  It  is  a  phenomenon  worthy  of  consideration  by  all 
hardened  disbeUevers  in  that  which  is  miraculous  upon  this 
earth  that  when  a  man's  heart  really  opens  to  a  friend  he  finds 
there  room  for  two.  And  when  he  takes  in  the  second,  behold  the 
skies  lift,  and  the. earth  grows  wider,  and  he  finds  there  room 
for  two  more! 

In  a  curious  passage  (which  I  understand  no  longer  darkly) 
old  mystical  Swedenborg  tells  of  his  wonderment  that  the 
world  of  spirits  (which  he  says  he  visited  so  familiarly)  should 
not  soon  become  too  small  for  all  the  swelling  hosts  of  its 
ethereal  inhabitants,  and  was  confronted  with  the  discovery  that 
the  more  angels  there  were,  the  more  heaven  to  hold  them! 

So  let  it  be  with  our  friendships! 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

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